When Life Hands You Lemons, Just Barf Them Up & Be Done With It
August 02, 2010
Is there anything as heartbreakingly sweet as a child creeping up to you in the middle of the night who doesn't quite have the actual language to describe what's bothering them?
On Friday night Noah tapped my arm to wake me up, babbling something about how he "didn't keep [his] mouth closed so it all came out everywhere all over the bed." I reached out to touch him and his wet, sticky pajamas filled in the rest of the details for me.
(Wait, did I say something about "heartbreakingly sweet?" Am I high? No, I'm not. But I can explain.)
So first, let's back up to Friday afternoon, when there was a medical disaster of the Fruit Sticker variety for Ezra. Only this time it was not a Fruit Sticker. I know because I double-checked for that. Fool me once, and all. AND I called the doctor. Who told me to bring him in, but in the meantime, to put some Neosporin on it. And what else is Neosporin besides, essentially, medicated Vaseline? Right? Totally. I felt vindicated.
(Diagnosis: Some kind of abrasion of mystery, possibly caused by a very small fingernail belonging to a very curious small hand. You can find out more details in my upcoming book that I made up just now, entitled "THEY TOTALLY GET BONERS: And 250 Other Things Nobody Told You About Mothering Little Boys.")
Anyway, after spending most of the day fussing over the Not A Fruit Sticker problem, Noah came down with a stomach bug, the kind that required our presence every hour on the hour, for many, many hours. Finally he lay shivering in bed and pleaded "DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE," which: awww. And yet, dammm.
Regardless, it was a good weekend! Turns out my children are at their most-ideal-most-charming setting while semi-recovering from illness or other NOT A FRUIT STICKER indignities. It was such a good weekend, I started saying crazy shit about having another baby OUT LOUD, which Noah unfortunately heard, so Sunday morning started off with him sneaking into our room very early and climbing up on the rocking chair while expressing his DISTINCT REQUEST for a baby SISTER, this time, because he already has a baby brother and that's boring, he wants a SISTER.
And then he just sort of sat there staring at us for awhile. Like, well? Get on it, you two.
So of course, after refusing to let mysterious penis injuries and projectile vomiting fully remind me as to Why This All Sucks Something, I was way past due for a nice rude wake-up call of suck. Which happened, IRONICALLY ENOUGH, during last night's True Blood*. About halfway through I realized that the violence was actually making me a little queasy. Usually I just sort of bray uncomfortably at it, like HA HA THIS SHOW IS NOT TOO VIOLENT FOR ME OH NO, NO, FOR I AM A SOPHISTICATED GROWN-UP AND GAAAAH HOLY SHIT WHAT TEH FRACK.
So you see where this is going.** I came down with Noah's stomach bug, and then Ezra did too, almost exactly one hour later. Jason changed crib sheets every hour or so, in between holding the poor baby up over the toilet ("ALL DUN!" he shouted desperately, over and over, "ALLDUNNNN!") while I dragged my diseased ass back and forth from the bed to the bathroom and tried to remember to hold my own hair. Jason brought me some ice chips, which I managed to do okay with before getting dehydratingly greedy and deciding to drink two whole sips of the melted water in the bottom of the cup. This did not end well.
So that was my night! All the way into the wee morning hours. I still am not feeling quite 100%, or even 50%. Pick something in the single digits and we'll talk. At least this is the perfect pre-Blogher crash diet?
*GEDDIT? Suck? And...you know...suck? Like vampires? Oh, shut up.
**You know you've been writing on the Internet too long when one of the FIRST ACTUAL THOUGHTS you have while throwing up in a toilet is that the first person who says anything at all about pregnancy is going to get beaten in the head with a rusty shovel.***
***Way harsh, Tai. I know. I'm sorry. I don't mean that. I just wasn't exactly in the best mood right then, what with the vomiting. Let's just blame HBO's violent prime-time programming instead and make up. You wanna cuddle? I'm curious to know the exact incubation time on this sucker, for Jason's sake.