Slimy Fluid of Doom

On Tuesday I shared some slightly irrational fears. On Wednesday Big Brother came down with a raging cold and Little Sister exhibited signs of a seriously clogged colon. The latter came out okay, but every time the little man sneezed ropes of snot flew every which and where; he had a fever and runny eyeballs. My nasal spray is pretty much gone and my ears still pain me from time to time. The baby either gets kicks out of watching my eyes dilate from anxiety or she still has some discomfort in her ears as well because she has really been at them again.

This morning my baby girl is showing signs of congestion, and her skin is warm to the touch. I’m pooped from lack of sleep the last two nights: I had to heed cries of “need a tissue!” and wipe the little man’s nose about every thirty minutes. This is becoming somewhat of a challenge since his nose is already chapped. I don’t believe I have ever seen a nose become cracked and red in less than twelve hours before. I suppose that comes from insisting it be wiped every two-point-five seconds during the daytime hours. Needless to say, I got little else done; not much housework can be accomplished in segments lasting less than three seconds.

It’s times like these when I almost believe in jinxes. Like typing those words the other day somehow summoned all of the bacteria within a ten-mile radius and caused it to beset our home or something. Darn that Murphy and his law; if I could find him I would command my child to sneeze, blowing snot and microscopic green germs of pestilence onto Mr. Murphy. If the man were within ten yards of us I bet my son could nail him with his projectile snot rockets.

The OTHER Side of the Story

Remember this post? Well, the patient has decided to speak out against Unfair Treatment Of Sick Husbands (UTOSH) and stand up for the rights of couch-ridden men everywhere.

Seaweed: Beneficial Undersea Food Source Or Malificent Pelagic Killer?

This headline demonstrates that there are two perspectives to every story, a Yin an Yang, if you will, to every event. For example, a concentration camp Commandant might think that things are going quite smoothly for the inmates, and everything is running as purposed. For the inmate, however, that probably means regular beatings, sensory deprivation and a lousy menu, but what one side reports is going to be very different than what the other reports.

Take my illness for example. My wife was not the one lying incapacitated on the sofa in a delerious visceral agony. She was not the one experiencing sensations in her bowels that would overwhelm a Roman Gladiator. What she saw was simply a grown man reduced to moaning, whining and griping, in short suffering to the uttermost, which is to the dispassionate and cold-hearted, a rather annoying thing to witness.

It's like trying to sleep at 3 a.m. only to be kept awake by a caterwauling feline in heat. Yes, the female cat is suffering, as the physiological processes accompanied with heat can be very painful. But who cares? It's 3 a.m. and the thing is making a noise like, well, like a cat in a blender. It's the same thing with me and my albeit brief bout with the exotic viral gastrointestinal attack. I was in unfathomable agony, which manifested itself in very vocal and immobilizing ways, and my wife, desensitized from years of caring for children, saw only an adult behaving in a childlike manner, and beheld yet another body to take care of. It's sad, really, because I have now fully recovered from my sickness of body, but it may take a long time indeed for my wife to recover from her sickness of soul.

The King of Drama Takes Ill

Now that my husband is safely out of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I feel that it is safe to share of my journey by his side. It is commonly known that the average man reverts back to infancy when he feels a case of the sniffles coming on. He becomes unable to complete simple tasks, like taking himself to the bathroom or pouring himself a glass of juice.

My husband is the kind of man that if given warning of the impending disease, he would probably bust out the craft supplies and make a sign to drape across his prone form that proclaimed “The End is Near” instead of just laying on the couch all day whining and bemoaning the approaching doom. Every time the kids get sick I find myself begging God to let the illness pass by my husband.

This time Daddy got sick first and there was no warning. The poor soul awoke to his alarm clock and declared that he had not slept for two seconds together the entire night and that he felt positively horrible. This being only his third day on a new job he decided that there was nothing for it but to drag his weary body from the comfort of his covers and get ready for work. With very great effort he managed to dress himself and be out of the door within the minute his ride called to say he was parked out front.

Less than three hours later his ride was back out front to drop off my stomach virus stricken husband. Coming through the door, he plowed his way through us to dive onto the couch and issue the decree that he was very, very sick and delirious, and that anyone who touched, climbed on, or otherwise bothered him would be sentenced to death.

Somewhere between the front door and the couch the small amount of pity that I had been able to accumulate had vanished, and the feeble man was fated to an afternoon of being cared for by a cranky nurse.

His condition quickly deteriorated from a typical stomach virus to something called a “nerve virus.” I had never encountered this type of sickness before, but I can tell you from experience that one of the symptoms that the inflicted claims to have is paralysis of the legs. There seems to be a momentary reprieve that enables the patient to arise if the doorbell rings while the nurse is upstairs with the children.

By the early afternoon the general whininess and level of complaint had increased in pitch to match the new self-diagnoses of “ameobic dysentery” in conjunction with a “very high fever” of 100.5 degrees Fahrenheit. I was surprised when only Tylenol was requested instead of a high dosage of morphine.

Shortly after this I was struck with amnesia, due to the stress of it all, and remember very little of the remaining period of illness. I can say for sure that I was not thrown up upon like I was only a few days later, nor was I required to do any nasty cleaning up. I did have to suffer, along with the rest of the household, through some unidentifiable odors however. My husband was quick to reassure me that the stench was his decomposing body tissue, and that I should for the sake of heaven take pity on him, during this, his final hour.

Over at My House We Have Sickness and... Stressness?

It is never a pleasant thing for either party when a toddler empties the contents of his stomach on mommy’s lap first thing in the morning. The poor child doesn’t understand what is happening, although he can attest to the fact that corn on the cob feels better going down than it does coming up. He’s not quite sure why mommy says it’s okay to keep “gagging” into her lap, but since she says that he should, he does. Over and over, until his belly (which must be larger than a person would think) is completely empty.

Mommy has a moment of panic where she is not sure how to get up from the couch without the contents of her impromptu bucket sloshing onto the floor. Thankfully the baby is still asleep so she cannot try to force her way into this scenario and suddenly decide to take up finger-painting or do any it-looks-like-a-puddle splashing. The thought of said baby waking up and wanting to participate in the clean up propels mommy into action.

In fear of another vomit episode mommy decides it is best to skip her shower until daddy gets home, so that the toddler needs not be left alone for any length of time. That is why, when twelve o’clock noon rolls around mommy is only in green sweats and a pink t-shirt, most of her hair back in a pony tail while small pieces frizz out and stick up around the temples, looking like an unkempt frazzled young mother who is in no position to be caring for small children.

Most days this doesn’t bother mommy, as looks can be deceiving and there is generally no one looking. On this day, however, mommy turns her back to the baby for a few moments to vacuum the kitchen. Most mommies have a hawk-like sense of hearing that magically develops within a few hours of bringing the baby home from the hospital. Over the noise of the vacuum it isn’t long before mommy hears the beep-beep of the phone buttons being pressed incessantly. Mommy arrives on the scene in seconds and stretches out her hand for the baby to relinquish the phone.

Since the episode at the start of the year, mommy’s paranoia has kept the phone in high places like countertops. The toddler quickly lost interest in playing with it and mommy started to slack off. The other repercussion of that incident is that mommy always punches the redial button to see what, if any, number was dialed. Today the screen flashes with “11”.

“Whew,” mommy thinks, “That was a close one.”

And then the phone rings.

Mommy knows only too well that it is standard procedure for a dispatcher to return any 911 call that connects, and that it is protocol for them send a police officer by.

Mommy feels that, for the first time in her life, she would be glad to hear a telemarketer’s voice on the other end of the line, anyone, as long as she can pick up the phone without hearing the greeting of an emergency dispatcher.

Alas, the baby had defied some perceived odds and dialed 911. And not just once, apparently. The dispatcher is very kind to mommy and the policeman that responds to the call is a handsome young man whose six-month-old, it turns out, called 911 himself in a moment of mischief and boredom. Mommy is so overjoyed at the kindness of the officer that she forgets she is standing out on the porch talking to a policeman while wearing her junk clothes with no bra on and her hair sticking out wildly from her head, holding a baby that is still in her p.j.’s because she may come down with the death virus and start puking at any moment, and what’s the sense of dressing her? To complete the vagabond look the usually clean porch is littered with two pairs of daddy’s work shoes and the toddler’s bicycle. At least mommy remembered to brush her teeth.

Mommy is not sure if ten out of ten experts agree or not, but she feels pretty expert-ish at times and according to her statistics if your kid hasn’t called 911 yet look out, because two out of two kids are doing it.

We're Under Attack by the Boogie Monster

We’re all sick. Again. There has been a lot of illness this year, and I really don’t get it. The kids aren’t in daycare, and the only interactions they have with other nose-picking, finger-licking kids are the occasional visit to the park and their almost-weekly romp in the nursery at church.

At this point I’m extremely thankful that it is only a moderate cold. However, I am a little concerned about the yellowish snot that I’ve been sucking out of the baby’s nose with the aspirator. There are few things more pathetic than holding down a screaming, flailing child in order to extract disease and pestilence out of their nose. I’m having flashbacks about the ear infections that plagued the entire family during the month of February.

It is July, though, and I am of the mind that children should be laying on the couch exhausted from running around the yard and playing in the sandbox for hours, not because some horrible germs are scurrying about their nasal passages and having races up and down their esophagus.


For a look back at other posts related to our run-ins with bacteria this year, click on the label "sick" below.

Who Needs A Tissue?

How is a person supposed to teach a toddler not to wipe his runny nose on the sleeve of his shirt, the couch, carpet, his sister, etc? My poor son is suffering from über-runny-nose-syndrome and I can’t seem to keep up with the output, so he is helping himself to the furniture in lieu of a tissue. At least the fabric of our couch is micro fiber so I can scrub the lethal boogies out of it.

I believe this may be the first cold he has had where the amount of congestion is so excessive that it actually causes him to drool. As charming as that sounds, it’s really kind of gross. While the snot drips from every orifice in his face he grabs his sister’s face with both of his hands and plants a big (really) wet kiss on her head. No. I don’t think she’ll get sick. Really! I’m sure the fact that she keeps sipping out of the cups he leaves lying around the house won’t increase the chance of any illness on her part.

Speaking of illness, I thought I would lose my lunch after seeing the amalgamation of sweet things my husband put together for a snack. He was so proud of it that he took a picture and wrote down instructions for proper layering. Just looking at it made me want to eat a large salad. Or drink a big cup of water.

Give Me A Rainy Day

It is a dreary, wet day today. The sky is the color of the dirty white walls in our house, and a steady rain has been beating the sidewalk and street since before we rolled out of bed this morning. Although soggy, the grass looks greener for the rain and the cars on our short little street appear thankful to have had the bird waste washed from their doors and the paint freshened up by the removal of dirt and grime.

Today the birds are sighing from the strong branches of the trees across the street, fluttering their wings in acceptance of the rain but caring little for song and gaiety. A stray cat or two slinks down the road in search of a free meal, its drenched bedraggled fur clinging to the ribcage that juts out even more exaggeratedly in the downpour.

A little boy pokes his face through a section of broken blinds, his own little window to the outside world, looking for his daddy to come home because, after all, it seems to be dark out there and dusk is daddy’s usual time for coming home. After keeping a lookout for a bit he resigns himself to the couch to watch his favorite movie-of-the-week, Singing In The Rain, which today seems oddly appropriate.

His little sister is snug in mommy’s arms next to him. An occasional sad-sounding cough reverberates through her chest; her eyes red and runny. These types of melancholy days are more conducive to forgetting the housework and nestling a sick baby as opposed to bright and sunny days that energize and demand productivity.

Never mind the pile of folded laundry that awaits its return to the dresser drawer where it will sit until worn, soiled and washed again. The dirty dishes will still be in the sink later, or tomorrow when perhaps the sun will find its way from behind the cloaked sky and make the chore a little more cheery. There is a particular amount of satisfaction to be had in passing a dreary afternoon with one’s babies safely tucked away in their mommy’s arms.

Have Cape, Will Still Unravel

Just about two months ago I had a birthday. My Daddy and Grammy (my mom’s mom) put their heads together and made me a cape in honor of my blog’s title. Really, it’s a cape/lap blanket, which makes it not only fun but functional as well. The cape is swell and I think that it was a very creative and thoughtful gift.

It would seem that merely being the possessor of a cape does not equip a person with super-hero powers. I’m looking into taking a class titled “Capes and How to Use Them.” After having ownership of said cape for less than twenty-four hours a great and terrible sickness overcame my son and quickly conquered and pulverized the rest of us. Since then things have broken that I have been unable to repair, and my son is sick again and has a horrible viral rash that looks to be taking over his soft baby skin and turning it into something akin to red cauliflower. It’s dreadful.

I’m not the most computer savvy person out there. I finally learned how to move pictures from the digital camera to the computer. Previously this had been my husband’s job, but I thought it would be useful to know how to do it myself. I managed to find the USB cable and plug the camera into it; I even handled moving the images from the memory card into the picture program. That was as far as I got before I ran into some problems and became utterly confused. Confusion is not something that my brain understands very well and I flew into a panic and had to call my Dad for help. He was able to fix all of my troubles (he’s good at that) although I think he got a good dose of psychotic babbling from me in the interim. Alas, my cape failed me again: I could really use an instruction manual. Maybe I need the stretchy pants too…

Murphy Strikes Again

I don’t know anything about the person who drafted Murphy’s Law, but I suppose I wouldn’t be partial to him or her. It seems to me that if the notion that “anything that can go wrong will” weren’t floating around out there in the atmosphere circumstances wouldn’t feel they were at liberty to wheedle a person’s nerves. There are few things that have the ability to work me up into a frothing frenzy faster than problematic bills and issues with our medical insurance. More often than not, these bills or insurance statements that claim “THIS IS NOT A BILL”, which they may as well be, arrive in the mailbox on weekends. Murphy knows well and good that my insurance company does not field phone calls on weekends. That means I have to wait until Monday to straighten out the problem that looms over my head like a giant black anvil or a sleek grand-piano waiting to smoosh my cartoonish form into a flat pancake. I really find it that stressful. On the brighter side, my little boy had a raging fever for one day and then it magically disappeared. Thank the Lord. So far no one else has exhibited any signs of sickness. I’m having myself fitted for laser beam eyes just in case that darn Murphy tries to show up to wave his magic wand and cause the rest of the family to become ill with typhoid fever or something; that way I can blast him and hopefully put an end to his maniacal dealings once and for all.

Here We Go 'Round The Mullberry Bush

I awoke at six o’clock this morning with my son’s feverish toes digging into my back, and his head feeling hot enough to fry up some breakfast. It has only been a month since my family was rid of the dreaded viral cold/bacterial ear infection illness. That virus held us in a death-grip for weeks and weeks. It’s six am and I can’t sleep because I’m having flashbacks of force-feeding two kids amoxicillin twice a day for ten days.

When I finally dragged myself out of bed at eight o’clock I settled my little guy on the couch with a sheet, his pillow and a fuzzy blanket, put on a video and then plodded into the kitchen to make the coffee that I would need to get me through my day. I ground up some nice Mexican Select Green Mountain Coffee and poured cold filtered water into the reservoir; I plugged in the pot and toggled the switch into the “on” position. No red light. No sounds of percolation. Turned it off; turned it back on. And off. And on.

I suppose there is no good time for a coffee pot to break, but today seemed a particularly bad choice. The thing is only 1 ½ years old. In the six years that we’ve been married we’ve had to replace a VCR and our microwave. Family members have microwaves that have been around since the dawn of time and coffee pots that are older than me and still operate. They just don’t make things like they used to.

My husband was able to convince the mutinous coffee pot to brew ten cups, but I have a desperate hunch that it won’t be made to work again. In the meantime I suppose I shall have to drink twice as much tea to sustain me as I nurse my poor sick toddler back to health. All I can do is hope and pray that this time around the period of illness will be short lived and milder, and that it won’t ravage the whole family. If I ignore the tickle in my throat and wash my hands every two-point-five seconds maybe it’ll go away.

Waiter, There's A Chicken In My Soup

In just two days my baby girl has learned how to drink from a sippy cup and to feed herself pieces of Cheerios. (Occasionally she does forget to let go of the cereal once she has it in her mouth). She is so proud of herself! As the water from the cup rushes into her mouth the initial look of surprise is quickly replaced with a laugh and smile.

We had some snow over the weekend, so my husband took our son outside to play and build a snowman. I am ashamed to admit that I have never taken part in this wintertime tradition. As has followed every snowfall so far this year, the air warmed up and the amount of snow decreased significantly within a day or two. The poor snowfellow in the backyard has thinned dramatically due to the increase in temperature and one of his stick arms has fallen off. The neighbor bought a snowman kit so their snowman has a black hat, pipe, buttons, eyes, nose, and even a little red scarf. He looks so cool. Our snowman is bigger anyway.

My husband, being a boy, has a small collection of rubber spiders. My son happily inherited these and I keep finding them lying about the house waiting to startle any unsuspecting persons. I don’t mind the purple spider so much as it obviously fake, but that small black and yellow one looks more real, especially when I am not wearing my glasses. However, my husband can tell you that I do not startle easily; as the possessor of nerves-of-steel I have not yet screamed, shouted, or otherwise jumped when one of these six legged rubber charlatans have crossed my path. My husband used to have a small rubber chicken that he would leave in out-of-the-way places (i.e. inside drinking glasses, in the medicine cabinet, under my pillow, etc.) to see if he could make me jump. He gave up after a couple of weeks. The chicken did find its way under my husband’s pillow once and was flung mercilessly across the room out of startled revulsion. I wonder how it got there?

Now that I am on round two of antibiotics I am hoping to be back to normal any day now. I have been woozy for a week and it has become a challenge to carry the baby and also avoid walking into walls. My left ear is completely stopped up and I cannot hear a thing with it. When a mother’s auditory system is only operating at fifty percent capacity it is difficult to ascertain the subtle sounds of a toddler getting into trouble. That is not a good thing.

God Bless Us, Everyone

Not to be outdone by the others in our house, the infected boogies in my body decided to have a potluck dinner and take up residence in my sinuses and left ear. The circle is complete. I have joined the club of antibiotic takers that started with my son; membership has reached 100%.

For those who do not remember what an ear infection feels like: there is pain, sloshing fluid in the ear canal, dull aching pain, constant ringing, general wooziness, stabbing pain, and pain. Bending over, moving from sitting to standing or lying down causes all the fluid in the ear to relocate causing more pain. I feel even more sorry for my babies, if that’s possible, now that I know first hand what they were going through.

I don’t know how I would have managed to keep my sanity without my family. My mom came as often as she could when the kids were sick, and she was here yesterday so that I could go to the doctor, rest and sleep. My mother, sister, and grandmother all brought food, so that I didn’t have to worry about cooking or getting to the grocery store. And they brought me delicious soup because I cannot chew due to the sinus infection. I love them.

It is such a blessing to know that there are people in my life that I know I can count on to help ease my burdens. I am also very proud of my husband for dragging his sick ear to work with him to provide for our family and make money to pay for all of the doctor bills and the dozen boxes, vials, tubes and bottles of medication that are scattered throughout the house.

I Should Ask For a Raise

My husband has joined the ranks of the infected-ear people in our household. So far (knock on wood) I am the solitary holdout. Before I continue I would like to say that I know he is in awful pain because he conceded to staying home this morning instead of joining my dad on the worship team in church; he hasn’t had an opportunity to play his bass guitar in church for a while because of his work schedule and it is something that he really looks forward to.

Instead, he got up this morning and immediately went to our local urgent care center. The doctor that tended to him prescribed three medications, one of which is an eardrop. My husband was in too much pain to calm down enough to administer the drops himself, so I sat him down and poised myself over his writhing body with the eardrops in hand.

It is one thing to hold a toddler down and coax him to swallow his amoxicillin or attempt to keep the baby from spitting hers all over herself; it is quite another to put drops into the ear of a grown man who is over six feet tall, muscular and uncooperative. My arms are short, so I can only get so far away and still be able to drip the drops into his ear canal. I got kicked in the ankle no less than three times for my effort. He was worse than the kids.

He seems a little perkier now. When I inquired whether his ear was feeling a little bit better he immediately clutched the side of his head and moaned. I guess not. I’m quite sure that he feels entitled to a little pampering and attention since the kids get both when they are sick. A hot bowl of chicken soup, a fluffy pillow and a few “poor baby”s aught to do the trick.

Vive Le Pee-Pee Dance

It is with a huge sigh of relief that I say that my family is on the mend: the cold/virus/ear infection sickness is winding down. My son hasn’t had a temperature since Monday, and the baby’s fever is almost gone as well; we all still have the remnants of considerable congestion and both the kids are taking antibiotics, but I believe the long-awaited end should arrive toward the middle of next week.

My son was the first one to become sick this time. We had been potty training for exactly two weeks when the fever hit. He was really starting to get the hang of it. There was no way I was going to drag my lethargic, feverish child to the bathroom every couple of hours when he was hardly drinking and had stopped eating so I put him in a diaper. He was a little dehydrated and he didn’t urinate often. By the time his fever broke and his appetite returned the baby had a high temperature and need almost constant care.

The baby’s temperature is almost back to normal today so I put “big underwear” on the little man this afternoon. Things are much more manageable today, I thought, it’s time to get back on the potty wagon. I felt that it should be relatively easy to get back on track. Well.

About five minutes after he put his feet into the leg holes and we pulled those pants up, my son decided he needed to poop. He never had gotten the hang of doing this in the toilet. Wipe, wipe, wipe; scrub, scrub, scrub; clean, clean, clean. And time for new underpants. I put the pot back in his toilet and turned around in time to see him squeeze his legs together. “Pee-pee on the floor?” he says. Uh, huh. In about seven minutes we’ve gone through two pair of clean underpants.

I believe it was the intent of this horrible sickness to undermine my potty training progress. It is my most dear and cherished hope that we can recover from this setback without having to start back at the beginning. In any event, I shall endeavor to keep my priorities in line: I would much rather fight with my toddler about the appropriate places to urinate than have to watch him suffer from a double ear infection.

Sick & Sick Incorporated

Thank heaven my toddler’s temperature has returned to normal. He is still congested beyond allowable snot levels, but what a huge improvement a couple doses of antibiotic can make. He and I are now vying for the most-congested-person-in-the-house award. Unfortunately, my baby has contracted this virus and is congested, running a fever and seems to have a bad headache. It’s so hard with babies because they cannot communicate exactly what is bothering them. When they cry with pain I’m always afraid that something horrible is wrong with them and that I won’t know until it is too late. Isn’t that terrible?

I sat the baby in the tub for the first time last night. She has a lovely mesh bath seat that she sits in when I bathe her, so I thought that it would be fun for both of us if she could splash around in the bath water for a change. Usually her brother is waiting impatiently for his turn, and since the baby still can’t anchor herself well when sitting her bath time tends to be a little abbreviated. It is so neat to watch a baby explore and experience something new. She slapped the water with her open palms and seemed surprised at the resistance they met from the water. The droplets of water that clung to her face displeased her at first, but she was having such a grand time splashing that she stopped minding them. I do believe she could have stayed in until she shriveled up; she cried something fierce when it was time to get out. But because she is such a happy sort of baby, she soon forgot what it was that she was upset about.

But It Tastes Like Bubble Gum!

Why is it that a small child seems to handle sickness better than a full grown adult? My son has been running a fever for seven days now, been to the doctor twice, has a double ear infection, a cough, a stuffy nose, and no appetite. There were two days where he lied on the couch like a lump and my heart wanted to break for his sad little face and his sick eyes, but for the other five days he held his own against the evil germs and still played with his cars. If I had a double ear infection and a fever I’d probably want to drape myself over the couch and let someone feed me chicken soup while I whined about how horrible I felt; the air around me would vibrate with the my moaning and groaning. I won’t even get into how my husband behaves when he has the sniffles. (Hint: I said I would only want to drape myself over the couch and moan). But not my son: with him it’s more like drive the Matchbox Mustang along the couch cushion, :::cough:::, :::cough:::, park the Mustang at the end of a long line of assorted other Matchbox cars. Wheel an ambulance along the arm of the couch. Ask for a tissue. He’s such a trooper. If I could just get him to swallow his medicine without screaming bloody murder then I believe he would qualify for some sort of medal.