Outbreak
That's right, outbreak. Remember that movie? The movie where a monkey bites someone, and that someone sneezes in a movie thater or somewhere equally crowded and accessible to all of us watching (and suddenly very nervous), and just like that a plague of epic proportions threatens to destroy all mankind?
Welcome to fall and winter, ladies and gentlemen. Most of you have kids, or have been around mine, and realize that with the end of summer comes the return of perpetual illness in the casa. And this year has proven no exception, and it's only the beginning of November. This is my way of an apology, for the huge lapse in blogging type fun (oh you loyal four readers, how I have surely disappointed you). And as a means of explanation, a glimpse into the casa when the first bug strikes.
Imagine yourself off on a Tuesday as a fluke of nature and holiday weirdness, deciding to accompany your children to the pumpkin patch on a daycare field trip. When you arrive you meet up with the other three moms who also took the day to go to the patch, the other three moms you have now spent the last three years coordinating play dates, school rides, daycare and birthday parties, etc. with, and you smile and settle in for a day of pumpkin type fun. But then...the sneeze. It could be nothing, right? I mean really, we're playing in a corn maze surrounded by a hay maze, which is parallel to a petting zoo and it's all located at a flower farm. Surely, allergies abound here. But when you glance at the mother of the sneezer and she says something in passing about him having a runny nose and fever from teething you KNOW. You KNOW that the fates just aligned against you, that this isn't teething, and since that kid is your three year old's best friend, days of health are numbered.
Somehow, someway, we made it through that entire week ok. We in fact made it until the following Thursday, at which point I received the text midday that the three year old had a fever. Sigh. Here, nonworking parents, is where you all have me beat. First of all, your kids would never have been exposed at daycare (good luck with kindergarten, by the way). Secondly, you would not at this point spend the next two hours picking up kids to take home and drug, coordinating daycare for one sick and one well the following day, adjusting your schedule along with that of your spouse, and adjusting for the fact that you HAVE to be at a retirement party the next night which will require additional exposure of another sitter...And all of this becomes incredibly frustrating when you realize the fever is only 99.something minimal, and the three year old is running through the house like a bat out of hell tormenting his brother.
But to justify the effort, at three am on Friday morning the croup cough starts. Yay! Wait, no, boo! And when I crawl out of bed to help I realize that I also feel like crap. Yup, bona fide garbage. Drainage, sore throat, all the signs that my little plague monkey has already drug me down into his misery. Blech. So the next morning, sore throat and cough rearing their ugly heads, I drug myself and the five year old out to infect the rest of the planet. Yes, I am that person. I leave the cop and hacking pre-schooler home, planning to meet them that evening, and go spread the germ wealth.
Pause here, all of you raising an eyebrow of disgust/disappointment. First off, I don't have a fever. Second off, if I took a day off every time I felt under the weather you wouldn't see me from October until approximately June. And since I make roughly nothing off this writing habit of mine, I kind of need the full time gig.
Suffice it to say, we made it through Friday and dropped the hellians off with their sister for the evening. We went to a retirement party and when we left at 11 and discovered the three year old had gotten progressively worse and needed to go to urgent care I got to be the one the ER staff was ready to report to CPS for walking in dressed for going out and smelling mildly of alcohol with my hacking three year old in pajamas. The cop got the privilege of sitting in the truck in the parking lot with the sleeping five year old. Three hours later, after chest xrays determining that in less than a day a mild fever had progressed to bronchitis and the beginnings of pneumonia, we went home with a preschooler all jacked up on a steroid based breathing treatment, karate chopping everything that moved and demanding food and cartoons.
Saturday? That's right, soccer. What, the parents didn't sleep? Nobody cares. Sunday I left for training in San Francisco. Sounds glamorous, right? But wait, did I mention it was in Hunter's Point? Here, however, is where being sick comes in handy. Because even in the ghetto of San Francisco, where the homicide rate in a few square miles is astronomically high, nobody wants to screw with the little white chick who looks like she may be carrying ebola or something equally dramatic. The SWAT guys had their guns, I had my cough, and none of us were accosted during several days of training.
And so I returned on Tuesday night to collect the children from grandparents, who hearing me on the phone opted to let me go home and sleep. Did I mention that my daughter, the sitter, was sick at this point? Wednesday, urgent care for me. Thursday, grandpa is now sick from watching the kids. By Monday we are back at the doctor for the five year old.
Yes, the five year old, who woke up that morning with croup. Let me tell you something about croup, it is a nasty bastard who sniffs out your weaknesses and pounces. And since Gabe has bad lungs, pneumonia. But Gavin, he has bad ears. Really bad ears. What is the number one secondary infection of croup? Ear infections. The pediatrician, who has treated both of my boys since birth, reassured me that Gavin's ears were ok, and told me about this swell new steroid treatment for croup (automatically I'm flashing back to Gabe on steroids karate chopping me at three am while begging for cookies) that can cut the duration in half. Sounds fantastic, right? But then the doctor tells me, in front of both children, that I have the option of a drink or a shot for the steroid.
Listen up again, nonparents. There comes a point where your children start to recognize that doctors mean immunizations. At that point parents memorize immunization schedules, thus allowing promises of "no, no shots, just a check up" to lure them into pediatrics without necessitating bribery and, in some drastic instances, restraints. So you can imagine how Gavin's ears perked right up when he heard something about a shot. The tears and hysteria were almost instantaneous. I looked at the pediatrician closely, and incredulously, to determine if maybe he was high or suffering from dementia to even mention such an option. He explained the medicine tasted "yucky." I explained we didn't care, and went on to soothe the now practically foaming at the mouth and leaking snot like a faucet five year old.
Yucky, as translated by our pediatrician, apparently, means vomit inducing. Who knew. There are SOME things I DO know, however, like if your five year old automatically gags and vomits his oral steroid they will force him to have the shot. The shot I have just repeatedly swore he wouldn't have to have. Which is why, in front of a nurse who looked on in horror, I grabbed Gavin's mouth with wild panic in my eyes and made him re-swallow the medicine, and whatever partially digested goldfish and fruit snacks were accompanying it in an attempt to escape Gavin's stomach.
I'm not proud. But no shot was necessary, and Gavin was feeling a million times better a day later. Sometimes parenthood just demands this kind of behavior. That's what I keep telling myself, anyhow.
And here we are, nearly a month later. The 18 year old got it the same week as Gavin, and yesterday the cop finally succumbed. All five of us are in various phases of disease and recovery, and the Casa de Testosterone sounds a lot like a tuberculosis ward to anyone approaching. I fully expect us to all recover, probably before Independence Day (fingers crossed).
Until next time.
Welcome to fall and winter, ladies and gentlemen. Most of you have kids, or have been around mine, and realize that with the end of summer comes the return of perpetual illness in the casa. And this year has proven no exception, and it's only the beginning of November. This is my way of an apology, for the huge lapse in blogging type fun (oh you loyal four readers, how I have surely disappointed you). And as a means of explanation, a glimpse into the casa when the first bug strikes.
Imagine yourself off on a Tuesday as a fluke of nature and holiday weirdness, deciding to accompany your children to the pumpkin patch on a daycare field trip. When you arrive you meet up with the other three moms who also took the day to go to the patch, the other three moms you have now spent the last three years coordinating play dates, school rides, daycare and birthday parties, etc. with, and you smile and settle in for a day of pumpkin type fun. But then...the sneeze. It could be nothing, right? I mean really, we're playing in a corn maze surrounded by a hay maze, which is parallel to a petting zoo and it's all located at a flower farm. Surely, allergies abound here. But when you glance at the mother of the sneezer and she says something in passing about him having a runny nose and fever from teething you KNOW. You KNOW that the fates just aligned against you, that this isn't teething, and since that kid is your three year old's best friend, days of health are numbered.
Somehow, someway, we made it through that entire week ok. We in fact made it until the following Thursday, at which point I received the text midday that the three year old had a fever. Sigh. Here, nonworking parents, is where you all have me beat. First of all, your kids would never have been exposed at daycare (good luck with kindergarten, by the way). Secondly, you would not at this point spend the next two hours picking up kids to take home and drug, coordinating daycare for one sick and one well the following day, adjusting your schedule along with that of your spouse, and adjusting for the fact that you HAVE to be at a retirement party the next night which will require additional exposure of another sitter...And all of this becomes incredibly frustrating when you realize the fever is only 99.something minimal, and the three year old is running through the house like a bat out of hell tormenting his brother.
But to justify the effort, at three am on Friday morning the croup cough starts. Yay! Wait, no, boo! And when I crawl out of bed to help I realize that I also feel like crap. Yup, bona fide garbage. Drainage, sore throat, all the signs that my little plague monkey has already drug me down into his misery. Blech. So the next morning, sore throat and cough rearing their ugly heads, I drug myself and the five year old out to infect the rest of the planet. Yes, I am that person. I leave the cop and hacking pre-schooler home, planning to meet them that evening, and go spread the germ wealth.
Pause here, all of you raising an eyebrow of disgust/disappointment. First off, I don't have a fever. Second off, if I took a day off every time I felt under the weather you wouldn't see me from October until approximately June. And since I make roughly nothing off this writing habit of mine, I kind of need the full time gig.
Suffice it to say, we made it through Friday and dropped the hellians off with their sister for the evening. We went to a retirement party and when we left at 11 and discovered the three year old had gotten progressively worse and needed to go to urgent care I got to be the one the ER staff was ready to report to CPS for walking in dressed for going out and smelling mildly of alcohol with my hacking three year old in pajamas. The cop got the privilege of sitting in the truck in the parking lot with the sleeping five year old. Three hours later, after chest xrays determining that in less than a day a mild fever had progressed to bronchitis and the beginnings of pneumonia, we went home with a preschooler all jacked up on a steroid based breathing treatment, karate chopping everything that moved and demanding food and cartoons.
Saturday? That's right, soccer. What, the parents didn't sleep? Nobody cares. Sunday I left for training in San Francisco. Sounds glamorous, right? But wait, did I mention it was in Hunter's Point? Here, however, is where being sick comes in handy. Because even in the ghetto of San Francisco, where the homicide rate in a few square miles is astronomically high, nobody wants to screw with the little white chick who looks like she may be carrying ebola or something equally dramatic. The SWAT guys had their guns, I had my cough, and none of us were accosted during several days of training.
And so I returned on Tuesday night to collect the children from grandparents, who hearing me on the phone opted to let me go home and sleep. Did I mention that my daughter, the sitter, was sick at this point? Wednesday, urgent care for me. Thursday, grandpa is now sick from watching the kids. By Monday we are back at the doctor for the five year old.
Yes, the five year old, who woke up that morning with croup. Let me tell you something about croup, it is a nasty bastard who sniffs out your weaknesses and pounces. And since Gabe has bad lungs, pneumonia. But Gavin, he has bad ears. Really bad ears. What is the number one secondary infection of croup? Ear infections. The pediatrician, who has treated both of my boys since birth, reassured me that Gavin's ears were ok, and told me about this swell new steroid treatment for croup (automatically I'm flashing back to Gabe on steroids karate chopping me at three am while begging for cookies) that can cut the duration in half. Sounds fantastic, right? But then the doctor tells me, in front of both children, that I have the option of a drink or a shot for the steroid.
Listen up again, nonparents. There comes a point where your children start to recognize that doctors mean immunizations. At that point parents memorize immunization schedules, thus allowing promises of "no, no shots, just a check up" to lure them into pediatrics without necessitating bribery and, in some drastic instances, restraints. So you can imagine how Gavin's ears perked right up when he heard something about a shot. The tears and hysteria were almost instantaneous. I looked at the pediatrician closely, and incredulously, to determine if maybe he was high or suffering from dementia to even mention such an option. He explained the medicine tasted "yucky." I explained we didn't care, and went on to soothe the now practically foaming at the mouth and leaking snot like a faucet five year old.
Yucky, as translated by our pediatrician, apparently, means vomit inducing. Who knew. There are SOME things I DO know, however, like if your five year old automatically gags and vomits his oral steroid they will force him to have the shot. The shot I have just repeatedly swore he wouldn't have to have. Which is why, in front of a nurse who looked on in horror, I grabbed Gavin's mouth with wild panic in my eyes and made him re-swallow the medicine, and whatever partially digested goldfish and fruit snacks were accompanying it in an attempt to escape Gavin's stomach.
I'm not proud. But no shot was necessary, and Gavin was feeling a million times better a day later. Sometimes parenthood just demands this kind of behavior. That's what I keep telling myself, anyhow.
And here we are, nearly a month later. The 18 year old got it the same week as Gavin, and yesterday the cop finally succumbed. All five of us are in various phases of disease and recovery, and the Casa de Testosterone sounds a lot like a tuberculosis ward to anyone approaching. I fully expect us to all recover, probably before Independence Day (fingers crossed).
Until next time.
Comments
Post a Comment