So I think I've officially lost my sense of humor about this whole House of Doom and Germs and Fluids Leaking From Everybody's Headholes thing. Perhaps I left it at the pediatrician's office this morning. Perhaps I'll call and see if anyone has noticed the smell of death coming from their Lost & Found.
Today's photo, if I chose to illustrate our plight, which I won't, because it's fucking disgusting, would feature the red oozing eyes of both Noah AND HIS MOTHER, who are sporting matching cases of pinkeye. Noah is also covered in a horrible itchy rash, which I initially brushed off as a run-of-the-mill viral rash, but now appears to be an allergic reaction to -- get this -- the Method Baby detergent I bought for Ezra's clothes.
We typically use the Seventh Generation Free & Clear detergent for Noah's clothes, and YES I KNOW, I don't need special baby detergent, but that Method stuff smells so damn good I was helpless to resist it. (Seriously. That shit will make you LACTATE, it's so baby-fresh-delicious.) But my mother-in-law took control of the laundry this week and actually did laundry so often that she was able to COMBINE Noah's and Ezra's clothing TOGETHER, in one load.
(I am baffled by this concept, since I generally wait until the hampers reach Everest levels before doing anything about it.)
(Another result of this extremely proactive approach to laundry is that we are out of hangers and drawer space EVERYWHERE, since we no longer have half of our wardrobes languishing around unwashed as a space buffer. Huh.)
Who in the world is allergic to baby detergent? WHO? Noah, apparently. And now we have to rewash his entire closet since no one can remember what's been washed when and with what detergent, because surprise! No one can smell worth a damn, thanks to our colds. And by "we" I actually do mean "me" because my in-laws caught some kind of stomach bug and are totally puking.
Let this be a lesson to everyone who might think about offering to come help us out with the baby or Noah or laundry or whatever: COMING TO OUR HOUSE WILL PROBABLY KILL YOU. SORRY ABOUT THAT.
And if this weren't ENOUGH to make you grab your torches and pitchforks and circle our zip code while chanting UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!...after Noah got sent home from preschool because of the pinkeye (don't blame me -- I KNEW that kid had pinkeye yesterday but was completely shouted down by my husband and in-laws who INSISTED that it wasn't pinkeye and made the call this morning to send him to school while I was busy hooked up to the breastpump, pumping milk for a mythical "dinner outside of the house without children" that Jason and I have been trying and failing and canceling reservations all week for), I took him to the pediatrician and was informed that hey! This kid has a raging bitch of an ear infection.
I stared at the doctor dumbly, because...what? Seriously? THAT TOO NOW? He'd JUST BEEN to the doctor two weeks ago and was fine. (Please note that Jason will yell at me for not taking Noah to the doctor over coughs, contact rashes and mysterious fruit stickers on the wang, but thought I was being completely ridiculous today over goddamned PINKEYE.) And he's still sleeping...and not tugging on his ear...and sure, he's had a cold for two weeks but...oh.
"Noah, does your ear hurt?" I asked in surprise after the doctor delivered the news.
"Yeeeessss." he wailed, and covered his ear with his hands.
"Well!" I said. "I sure am awesome at this."
So. We have an ear infection, two cases of conjunctivitis (but only one prescription for eyedrops, because fuck. that. shit. directly.), a really gross-looking rash, four really tenacious colds and two grandparents bravely trying to insist that it's only food poisoning, not a stomach bug, they're fine, really really fine, we should totally go out for dinner tonight, REALLY, they'll stay here in the House of Murderous Microbes with the children, RUN AND SAVE YOURSELLLLLVES.
Oh, and somebody had diarrhea all over the basement steps. Usually I'd just assume it was one of the pets, but at this point, nothing would surprise me, and everybody remains a suspect. Expect a thorough investigation, just as soon as I'm brave enough to emerge from the little fort I've made out of Clorox Disinfecting Wipes and bottles of hand sanitizer.
UPDATE: Noah is not allergic to the baby detergent. The rash is because apparently my poor father-in-law got confused and thought the (oh, God) Clorox Disinfecting Wipes we keep in the bathroom were the (oh, God) baby wipes. And he'd been using them on poor Noah (oh, God) all week.