Day three of being home with a sick 9 month old. Rations are quickly dwindling. Easton is still on a strictly liquid diet – lucky kid, he doesn’t have to digest some of my most recent attempts at “breakfast” and “lunch”.
I just shamefully caught myself eyeing a jar of baby food for one heartbeat too long. NO! Kelly, get your head in the game, this is no time to go soft.
Day four. The search for food is relentless. Yes, I could order pizza or chinese, but that’d be too easy. I like a challenge. I like to make things so much harder than they need to be. Sadly, the reality is that in the moment, this does not even occur to me.
Wait. *sniff sniff* I smell vomit. Food will wait.
I tiptoe to his door, careful not to be overly clumsy at a time like this. It’s already cracked – I learned the hard way that the turn of a door knob is just enough to jerk him from the brink of dreamland. Verryyy slowly I push it open. Just enough to stick my noise in. Nothing else. If my eyes go in also, and he’s awake, then there’s no turning back.
*sniff sniff* hmmm I can’t tell anymore – my senses are deceiving me lately. Or my entire house just smells of vomit.
Moment of truth, I peak the rest of my head in. Ever. So. Slightly.
He flips over.
I drop to all fours in the flash of an eye. CRAPPPPP. Did he see me? Is he awake? He didn’t look to be covered in vomit. If I woke him for no reason, I’m going straight to mommy-hell. Don’t cry, pleaseeee don’t cry.
I’m holding my breath. Because apparently the lungs buried deep within my chest are in need of a tune-up. Rickety old things.
He’s settled back down. Easy, Kelly – wait 30 more seconds. If this were a horror movie, this would be the part where they always assume the bad guy is dead and THEY NEVER ARE. But, I am smarter than that. So, I wait.
He’s still silent. (win!)
Now I’m crawling. Ha – apparently there are things my rambunctious 9 month old is much more graceful at – this is one. I ever so slightly peep over the bumper pad to be greeted by a little rear sticking straight up. Is he doing yoga?? I eye the landscape, thumb in mouth, butt in air, no visible signs of vomit, no scent of diarrhea. Whew, we’re in the clear this time!
I slowly stand and against all instincts – BOLT out the door. All the logic that had me creeping in the room nose-first is out the window now.
Day five. I’m buried deep in the trenches of pillows. The cries wake me before the sun. Seeing as how he still isn’t eating much, I know what these cries mean. Little one has shat thyself. Good Morning! Supermom runs to the rescue, scoops him, cleans him, bathes him, hydrates him, and does everything humanly possible to kid him happy. This involves singing. Yikes.
But it works. He is happy and laughing and playing again. I. Am. The. Bomb.
The clock reads 14:00 hours. We have been a poop and vomit free house for 12 hours. I have not only managed to keep my boy happy, but I am also in the process of finishing up the laundry. I see the light at the end of the tunnel, I am almost out of the trenches.
Haha, arrogant thing you are, Kelly. That light is a train slamming headfirst into me like an explosive diarrhea. No, not like an explosive diarrhea, it is an explosive diarrhea. Up and out of the diaper, all over the carpet.
*sigh* I get back to cleaning. I am on all fours with 3 different types of carpet cleaner when I hear the door slam. YES! Christian is home early. Moments later I hear the bathroom door slam. I cringe, cross my fingers and toss-up a quick Hail Mary.I emerge from Easton’s room and hesitantly wander to our bedroom. I find my beast of a husband curled into a ball beneath the duvet. While the apology for the bathroom is still hanging in the air, I run out the door, load Easton in the car and head to the grocery store.
We need backup. One hour and $90 later, I am loaded with Lysol, carpet cleaner, Gatorade and what the hell did I buy?!!??
By 17:00 I have disinfected everything and barricaded my two sleeping boys to their rooms. This is no longer a fair fight. I am in survival mode. I take refuge on my couch, put on a terrible chick flick and spend the next 3 hours desperately trying to use wine to kill any germs that may have gotten to me. At least this way, if I wake up vomiting I still have a 50-50 shot of not having caught the crud!
The glass if always half full 🙂