Warning: this blog entry contains graphic descriptions of motherhood that may or may not result in a desire to cover your eyes, lose your lunch, or swear off having children forever. Read at your own risk. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Before Max was born, I had very little experience with sick kids. My girls seem to never get sick. (Quick! Where is some wood when I need it to knock on?) Sure, we had our share of sniffles and even an ear infection or two, but if they get sick, it seems to always be minor and over within a day or two.
Then there's Max, who possesses a great gift for the dramatic. He's never met a cold, sniffles, ear infection or flu that he didn't like and didn't have to have. And because it's Max, and because he has a history of having his head cut open, spending weeks in the PICU, and every medical test known to man, I tend to overreact when he gets sick.
Except this is Max. And me. So it's never really that simple. It all started about 11 am. Fountains of vomit. All over me, all over him, all over the carpet. I changed him, I changed me, I tried not to lose it myself. Then as I was trying to save the carpet, he filled his diaper. So I changed him again. As soon as I got him dressed, his timer went off. (Because of course, he couldn't possibly time it so that I didn't have to change everything again!) More vomit. More clothes changes. More carpet scrubbing. You would think at this point I would be smart and put him either in the bath or on the hardwood floor. Unfortunately, it takes a little while (and apparently three rounds of puking, clothes changing and carpet scrubbing) before I get the picture.
He proceeded to throw up three more times while in the bath. At this point, my panic button was fully pressed. It didn't help when I called the pediatrician and her advice was to rush him right in. I was imagining the possibility of dehydration from all the vomiting, the possibility that he once again swallowed something that was poisoning him, or worst of all, the possibility that his intercranial pressure had spiked and we were going to have to be rushed into surgery. (I'm telling you, this boy has completely messed with my head and my confidence in dealing with simple illnesses!) I was about to cancel my whole life and rush to the Doctor's office when he started spitting bathwater at me and giggling. I figured if he was still laughing, he wasn't too terribly sick.
I proceeded to grow at least 15 new gray hairs when, after I got him out of the bathtub and dressed in his 4th change of clothes of the day, he proceeded to curl up on the floor and fall fast asleep. Anyone who knows me and knows my kids know that normally it takes nursing, rocking, singing, bribing, fake sleeping, standing on my head and an engraved invitation from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir before my babies decide to go to sleep. So the fact that he just decided to fall asleep like, say, a normal baby had me all manner of concerned. Then he proceeded to sleep for four hours. It was all I could do not to wake him up every 20 minutes to check his vitals. Every crazy possibility there was cycled through my head, and I was convinced we were going to be spending the night in the hospital.
Except then he woke up at 5:00, begged for his sippy cup, nursed like a fiend, ate a huge amount of pasta for dinner, and has been fine (and destroying the house) ever since. As long as you don't count the ever-present fountain-o-snot. Stinker.
So today, I resolve to stay in my pajamas as long as possible, take a morning nap, not clean up any vomit, and not envision hospital stays for snotty noses. Might be a resolution I can keep.