Shel Silverstein's "Sick." One of my fave poems of all time.
11:28pm
"We have puke," Stu announces, leaning in towards my head so I can hear him through the muffle of the earplugs (Stu and I both sleep with earplugs. Stu's affair with the plugs began several years ago when he was experiencing some sleep issues and I followed suit a couple of years later during my pregnancy when I inexplicably became incredibly sensitive to night time noises).
I did not expect this. I had become complacent. There hasn't been puke in months and months, possibly not since 2010. Stu had come in a moment ago to tell me the kid was crying and that he was going in to talk to him. That is our usual course of action when the kid cries during the night. Stu goes in and says something along the lines of "Hey, buddy, it's night night time. You're tired. You'll feel better if you lie down and go back to sleep. It's night night time. We love you. We'll see you in the morning." And voila. The kid goes back night night. If I go in, however, it's a different story entirely. There are demands to sit in the chair for "one minute." There are requests for "one tiny little sip of water," with accompanying bent fingers indicating small amounts of water. There are requirements of huggies and nose kisses and uppies huggies and neck kisses and belly kisses and if we're really awake, synchronized jumping (the kid in the crib, me on the floor, both of us holding on the crib rail). I am in his room for no less than 35 minutes while Stu can waltz out in 35 seconds.
"Yeah," Stu says, "I heard a wet cough." That's never good.
11:31pm
We enter the room to a weeping and coughing kid whose pajamas are dripping vomit. I peel his pjs off as his tears wane and sniffles begin. I lift him out of the crib and place him on the floor and begin the wipe down as Stu works on the bed, changing the sheets and hightailing it to the basement to get the sheets in the washer, because, of course, we now only have one clean sheet left and as any parent can attest, infant, baby, and toddler upchucking is just like sneezing. It's rarely a one-shot deal. So if the kid pukes again, we're out of sheets. I hold the kid for a few minutes, hoping and praying that he'll let me just put him back in his crib for night night and won't ask to sleep in our bed. I ask if he wants to sit with me before going back to bed.
"Yes, please. And then huggies and nose kisses?" which is what we do when he's getting ready for night night. I might be homefree on this one.
11:46pm
The kid seems to have fallen back asleep. Stu and I are in the basement, wondering what to do about the lint that has lodged itself in the drain of the sink that catches all the washer's water. We don rubber gloves and both try to fish out the swampy substance.
"I think we're just sticking it farther in," I note.
"You're right. I'll just get underneath and take the pipe apart and we'll take it out from there." My husband is a wonderful man. But he is not a handy man.
"You going to remember how to put the pipes back together?" I am having vivid memories of a Thanksgiving debacle which involved over an hour of pipe reconstruction after Stu decided to approach a clogged sink full of potato peels in a similar fashion.
"Yeah--this is much easier than the kitchen sink."
12:07am
"Do you want me to see if I can put it back together?" I watch Stu who is now lying shirtless on his back on the basement floor which is littered with droplets of digested carrot and corn which had fallen off of the kid's pajamas when Stu had tried to rinse them in the sink before it began to back up.
"No, no, I got it! See there is this little thing which slides up and attaches and I forgot about that piece and--"
Oh god. Please don't start explaining the structure of the pipe to me now. I'm never going to sleep again tonight. I just know it.
12:24am
All is quiet on the nursery front and Stu and I are back in the kitchen debating whether or not I should go back to sleep or wait a bit longer to see if there's more digestive action.
12:26am
A loud cough and some alien-type noise comes through the monitor. And then there is crying. We go through the whole sheet and pajama changing process again, minus the lint-filled sink drain. Amazingly enough, the kid goes back to sleep again.
3:33am
I can almost see the blue lights of the monitor from behind my closed eyes before I can hear the corresponding sobs. Stu is already up and on it. I am up and waiting for the report, which I don't always get. Every time Stu comes back from the kid's room after a mid-night visit, I want the whole low down: was he awake? Was he standing up? Did he ask for anything? Stu usually just says the kid was fine and falls back asleep instantly. I lie awake, eyes affixed to the monitor, waiting anxiously for another blip.
Stu walks in and leans into the ear-plug-accommodating stance, "He is demanding one minute in the chair with you." Stu rarely gives in to the kids middle o' the night demands, so I know this is serious.
I enter the nursery and the kid is standing, puffy red-faced, arms outstretched towards me. It's late, or early, and I want to go back to bed, but who can resist such a thing? He needs me. When I pick him up, his entire body collapses onto mine and I drop into the chair with his weight on top of me. He seems particularly warm and I'm concerned about fever, but the kid has inherited Stu's oven-like body temperature so I'm never quite sure whether it's just regular heat or a fever. Although truth be told, mothers know these things. In hindsight, I knew. I should have known to trust my knowing and given him some Tylenol right then and there. But no, I was hopeful. And I was stressed about missing work. And I thought maybe if I ignored everything he would just go back to sleep and we would have a normal day that was to begin in, oh, 3 hours.
3:48am
I try to put the kid back in his crib. Hey--it worked twice after the puking! But tears erupt immediately. I know he's sick and I realize that even if he were to go back to sleep by himself, sending him to school when he'd thrown up twice was probably pretty high on the irresponsible parent behavior chart. I give the kid an over-the-crib-rail huggie as the sobs subside.
"Would you like to sleep with Mommy in Mommy and Daddy's bed?"
"Yeah." I already know that a sick day is in my very near future.
"Okay, I just have to talk to Daddy and I will come back and get you."
"Okay," and he sits himself in the corner of the crib to wait.
I plod back to our bedroom and inform Stu that he will be sleeping on the couch and that the kid and I will be taking over the bed and that we should not be woken up in the morning. I plead my case for staying home with him, explaining how we can't possibly send him to school without knowing if he'll even be able to keep breakfast in his stomach. Plus, he might have a fever.
I bring the kid to bed and we sleep peacefully for the next three hours, after which he makes a break for it, slides off the bed, and gathers several of his Matchbox cars that have scattered across our bedroom floor in the preceding days and I have yet to have the wherewithal to put them anywhere else so they remain an obstacle course across the carpet. The kid lines the cars along the side of the bed (he has a thing about lines of cars. we figure it's either an early indicator of OCD or a future in a NASCAR pit.) and then removes two from the line and climbs back onto the bed via a step stool. I think that perhaps he is not sick and that we might go to school and I might not have to miss another day of work. But I feel the kid's head as he lies back down and I know he might still have a fever. We fall back asleep cars in hand, as if they were animals with which to snuggle.
Two hours later we wake up and there is crying and definitely fever. The rest of the morning entails attempts to actually see what the fever is amidst shrieking and kicking (102+...); attempts at harrowing diaper changes, the likes of which I have not previously known; and attempts to get the kid to ingest Tylenol which results in spit-out Tylenol on our couch, a dropper full of Tylenol flung across the living room, and a smattering of Tylenol across the wall which makes me consider whether or not the kid might be the next Jackson Pollock. There are also: calls to the day care (no we're not coming in today, and oh, really, there was another child who is home after having thrown up during the night?), calls to and from Stu, calls to and from my mother, calls to and from the doctor (possibly this is all a reaction to the flu shot and try to bribe the kid into taking some Tylenol), calls to and from work (yes, it was important for me to be at that afternoon meeting, and yes, i suppose sending out invites to a media event can wait one more day).
There is also a three-hour period during which I sit holding my ridiculously hot son. There is a part of it that is glorious. He hasn't let me hold him for that long since he was only months old. I adore having his cheek on my shoulder or pressed into my chest so that my sweatshirt zipper leaves a red and swollen impression when he lifts his head to turn over. And there is a part of it that is horrifying. Please take some Tylenol, I implore every time the kid wakes up in tears. It will make you feel better, I promise. Nooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!! he screeches. I cry miserably over my inability to make him feel better and hold him with all of my might.
There is also the hour during which my mother brings me a turkey wrap from the coffee shop down the street since by 2:30 I had eaten nothing all day. I am unable to get out from under the kid, so I eat my wrap with one hand, the coffee table pushed up against the couch to catch any of my plummeting poultry. And there is a lot of falling meat. I suggest that you never try to eat a wrap with one hand.
I also suggest that you try never to miss a moment of taking care of your sick kid, if you can help it. Because when the fever finally starts to break and he finally wakes up enough to request Sesame Street and he will finally take some Tylenol as he's engrossed in watching Grover look for a fly in--and under, and around, and next to--a bowl of soup, and asks for snuggles (much happier and cooler, and not crying snuggles), it's SICK. In the best way possible.
"We have puke," Stu announces, leaning in towards my head so I can hear him through the muffle of the earplugs (Stu and I both sleep with earplugs. Stu's affair with the plugs began several years ago when he was experiencing some sleep issues and I followed suit a couple of years later during my pregnancy when I inexplicably became incredibly sensitive to night time noises).
I did not expect this. I had become complacent. There hasn't been puke in months and months, possibly not since 2010. Stu had come in a moment ago to tell me the kid was crying and that he was going in to talk to him. That is our usual course of action when the kid cries during the night. Stu goes in and says something along the lines of "Hey, buddy, it's night night time. You're tired. You'll feel better if you lie down and go back to sleep. It's night night time. We love you. We'll see you in the morning." And voila. The kid goes back night night. If I go in, however, it's a different story entirely. There are demands to sit in the chair for "one minute." There are requests for "one tiny little sip of water," with accompanying bent fingers indicating small amounts of water. There are requirements of huggies and nose kisses and uppies huggies and neck kisses and belly kisses and if we're really awake, synchronized jumping (the kid in the crib, me on the floor, both of us holding on the crib rail). I am in his room for no less than 35 minutes while Stu can waltz out in 35 seconds.
"Yeah," Stu says, "I heard a wet cough." That's never good.
11:31pm
We enter the room to a weeping and coughing kid whose pajamas are dripping vomit. I peel his pjs off as his tears wane and sniffles begin. I lift him out of the crib and place him on the floor and begin the wipe down as Stu works on the bed, changing the sheets and hightailing it to the basement to get the sheets in the washer, because, of course, we now only have one clean sheet left and as any parent can attest, infant, baby, and toddler upchucking is just like sneezing. It's rarely a one-shot deal. So if the kid pukes again, we're out of sheets. I hold the kid for a few minutes, hoping and praying that he'll let me just put him back in his crib for night night and won't ask to sleep in our bed. I ask if he wants to sit with me before going back to bed.
"Yes, please. And then huggies and nose kisses?" which is what we do when he's getting ready for night night. I might be homefree on this one.
11:46pm
The kid seems to have fallen back asleep. Stu and I are in the basement, wondering what to do about the lint that has lodged itself in the drain of the sink that catches all the washer's water. We don rubber gloves and both try to fish out the swampy substance.
"I think we're just sticking it farther in," I note.
"You're right. I'll just get underneath and take the pipe apart and we'll take it out from there." My husband is a wonderful man. But he is not a handy man.
"You going to remember how to put the pipes back together?" I am having vivid memories of a Thanksgiving debacle which involved over an hour of pipe reconstruction after Stu decided to approach a clogged sink full of potato peels in a similar fashion.
"Yeah--this is much easier than the kitchen sink."
12:07am
"Do you want me to see if I can put it back together?" I watch Stu who is now lying shirtless on his back on the basement floor which is littered with droplets of digested carrot and corn which had fallen off of the kid's pajamas when Stu had tried to rinse them in the sink before it began to back up.
"No, no, I got it! See there is this little thing which slides up and attaches and I forgot about that piece and--"
Oh god. Please don't start explaining the structure of the pipe to me now. I'm never going to sleep again tonight. I just know it.
12:24am
All is quiet on the nursery front and Stu and I are back in the kitchen debating whether or not I should go back to sleep or wait a bit longer to see if there's more digestive action.
12:26am
A loud cough and some alien-type noise comes through the monitor. And then there is crying. We go through the whole sheet and pajama changing process again, minus the lint-filled sink drain. Amazingly enough, the kid goes back to sleep again.
3:33am
I can almost see the blue lights of the monitor from behind my closed eyes before I can hear the corresponding sobs. Stu is already up and on it. I am up and waiting for the report, which I don't always get. Every time Stu comes back from the kid's room after a mid-night visit, I want the whole low down: was he awake? Was he standing up? Did he ask for anything? Stu usually just says the kid was fine and falls back asleep instantly. I lie awake, eyes affixed to the monitor, waiting anxiously for another blip.
Stu walks in and leans into the ear-plug-accommodating stance, "He is demanding one minute in the chair with you." Stu rarely gives in to the kids middle o' the night demands, so I know this is serious.
I enter the nursery and the kid is standing, puffy red-faced, arms outstretched towards me. It's late, or early, and I want to go back to bed, but who can resist such a thing? He needs me. When I pick him up, his entire body collapses onto mine and I drop into the chair with his weight on top of me. He seems particularly warm and I'm concerned about fever, but the kid has inherited Stu's oven-like body temperature so I'm never quite sure whether it's just regular heat or a fever. Although truth be told, mothers know these things. In hindsight, I knew. I should have known to trust my knowing and given him some Tylenol right then and there. But no, I was hopeful. And I was stressed about missing work. And I thought maybe if I ignored everything he would just go back to sleep and we would have a normal day that was to begin in, oh, 3 hours.
3:48am
I try to put the kid back in his crib. Hey--it worked twice after the puking! But tears erupt immediately. I know he's sick and I realize that even if he were to go back to sleep by himself, sending him to school when he'd thrown up twice was probably pretty high on the irresponsible parent behavior chart. I give the kid an over-the-crib-rail huggie as the sobs subside.
"Would you like to sleep with Mommy in Mommy and Daddy's bed?"
"Yeah." I already know that a sick day is in my very near future.
"Okay, I just have to talk to Daddy and I will come back and get you."
"Okay," and he sits himself in the corner of the crib to wait.
I plod back to our bedroom and inform Stu that he will be sleeping on the couch and that the kid and I will be taking over the bed and that we should not be woken up in the morning. I plead my case for staying home with him, explaining how we can't possibly send him to school without knowing if he'll even be able to keep breakfast in his stomach. Plus, he might have a fever.
I bring the kid to bed and we sleep peacefully for the next three hours, after which he makes a break for it, slides off the bed, and gathers several of his Matchbox cars that have scattered across our bedroom floor in the preceding days and I have yet to have the wherewithal to put them anywhere else so they remain an obstacle course across the carpet. The kid lines the cars along the side of the bed (he has a thing about lines of cars. we figure it's either an early indicator of OCD or a future in a NASCAR pit.) and then removes two from the line and climbs back onto the bed via a step stool. I think that perhaps he is not sick and that we might go to school and I might not have to miss another day of work. But I feel the kid's head as he lies back down and I know he might still have a fever. We fall back asleep cars in hand, as if they were animals with which to snuggle.
Two hours later we wake up and there is crying and definitely fever. The rest of the morning entails attempts to actually see what the fever is amidst shrieking and kicking (102+...); attempts at harrowing diaper changes, the likes of which I have not previously known; and attempts to get the kid to ingest Tylenol which results in spit-out Tylenol on our couch, a dropper full of Tylenol flung across the living room, and a smattering of Tylenol across the wall which makes me consider whether or not the kid might be the next Jackson Pollock. There are also: calls to the day care (no we're not coming in today, and oh, really, there was another child who is home after having thrown up during the night?), calls to and from Stu, calls to and from my mother, calls to and from the doctor (possibly this is all a reaction to the flu shot and try to bribe the kid into taking some Tylenol), calls to and from work (yes, it was important for me to be at that afternoon meeting, and yes, i suppose sending out invites to a media event can wait one more day).
There is also a three-hour period during which I sit holding my ridiculously hot son. There is a part of it that is glorious. He hasn't let me hold him for that long since he was only months old. I adore having his cheek on my shoulder or pressed into my chest so that my sweatshirt zipper leaves a red and swollen impression when he lifts his head to turn over. And there is a part of it that is horrifying. Please take some Tylenol, I implore every time the kid wakes up in tears. It will make you feel better, I promise. Nooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!! he screeches. I cry miserably over my inability to make him feel better and hold him with all of my might.
There is also the hour during which my mother brings me a turkey wrap from the coffee shop down the street since by 2:30 I had eaten nothing all day. I am unable to get out from under the kid, so I eat my wrap with one hand, the coffee table pushed up against the couch to catch any of my plummeting poultry. And there is a lot of falling meat. I suggest that you never try to eat a wrap with one hand.
I also suggest that you try never to miss a moment of taking care of your sick kid, if you can help it. Because when the fever finally starts to break and he finally wakes up enough to request Sesame Street and he will finally take some Tylenol as he's engrossed in watching Grover look for a fly in--and under, and around, and next to--a bowl of soup, and asks for snuggles (much happier and cooler, and not crying snuggles), it's SICK. In the best way possible.
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