Just when you thought it was safe

Now Tornado S has a fever.  And Tornado A has colic.  And Tornado E . . . well, he’s just Tornado E.  And Tornado S is having problems remembering to get to the potty, peeing all over my mom’s family room.  All.  Over.  The.  Floor.  Like a finger painting.  And Tornado A cries so long that I actually run out of songs to sing as I pace him.  And Tornado E . . . um, he’s loving doing his workbook, insisting on doing seven pages.  And . . . ok, I actually think this isn’t that bad.  I could rant about The Husband, but I’m sure that’ll bore the few readers I have.  I could rant about where my readers went, but since I can’t comment on everyone’s post lately, I’ll assume they can’t comment on mine or my stats are off.  I could rant about my health insurance company, but I don’t have the time.  But that day will becoming.  Bastards.  And believe me, I’ll name names.  And my mom is asking me to find a pickle recipe from Martha Stewart.

I don’t think it’s the plague . . . .

But I’ve been wrong before.  Or maybe I have to stop reading books that talk about plague while the family is sick and I’m pregnant.

Tornado E has reduced his fever but is trying to cough out a lung, which he generously shared with me.  I spent the night alternating between chills, sweats, and dear-god-I’m-going-to-loose-the-baby.  I’m sure the last one is overreacting a tad.  Yesterday I sat on the couch like a zombie with a little drool hanging out of the corner of my mouth.  When the boys decided they only needed an hour and half nap, I packed up and went to my parents, which is something I’m selfishly contemplating right now.  Why is it when someone is the least bit sick, The Husband comes down with an illness that should have him quarantined or at least waited on hand and foot by his wife?  Escaping to the parents’ house is looking better and better.

The end of a vacation deserves a vacation

The Husband and I wanted to visit Boston.  We only had one day without any obligations to the wedding.  One day to squeeze in a week of vacation.  Boston was our first choice.

Then a friend of The Husband, who was born and raised in Boston, told him that the boys would be completely bored with any of the historic stuff in Boston and we would spend the time trying to keep the boys occupied.  He suggested Salem.  Remembering the weeks of studying Salem’s history when I was a teen, I agreed.  My parents and baby brother were staying longer in Boston and decided to join us.

I tried to pump up the boys telling them about the pirate museum.  Tornado S ran around the hotel room, yelling “Yo-ho!”  Tornado E wasn’t convinced.  I mentioned the witch museum, grasping at straws.  I had forgotten that Tornado E was a witch last Halloween, and he jumped around, talking about witches and wizards.

We ended going to a pirate museum and two witch museums that were run by the same company.  The Husband had looked at the reviews the night before, worried about the negative reviews.  The negative reviews were right; I wouldn’t call these museums.  They were more like walking through a wax museum as each museum had rooms filled with manikins positioned to act out scenes.  We were walked through the tour by different guides who were knowledgeable and entertaining.  In the end, we were entertained and learned something.  Though I decided after watching a scene form “a trail” (which looked and sounded a whole lot like a scene from “The Crucible” to the point I swear it was from the play word for word) and hearing what the scenes were in the museum, I decided the boys did not need to have a look through the witch dungeon.  At the end, we spent a couple more hours there than we had planned, since we were hoping to catch a glimpse of Boston history that day.

We ended up not getting to Boston, staying at a hotel just outside the city.  After dinner, where Tornado S learned to say “Appabee’s,” charming the wait-staff, we found a park on the map.  We took the boys, letting them run off their energy.  My mom spied an ice cream shop just passed the park, and we went to satisfy our curiosity and sweet tooth.  The Husband, being a generous father, let Tornado E pick his own ice cream out, which was bubblegum.  In his defense, The Husband had no idea that there was real bubblegum in the ice cream.

When we got to the hotel room, The Husband fell asleep immediately; while, I tried to get the boys to sleep without much fuss, fighting, or giggling.  Nothing like sharing a double bed.  In desperation, I rolled a towel up, length wise, and placed it between them, commanding not to stray over the towel with dire consequences.

About two-thirty in the morning, I was awoken by a strange sound that I couldn’t place.  The Husband sprung from the bed, yelling for me to grab something because Tornado S was vomiting.  Apparently Tornado S doesn’t cry when he throws up but makes a gentle heaving sound that barely pierces my deep sleep.  I ran to the bathroom, grabbing a towel because we didn’t have anything else.  We held Tornado S over the towel until he was finished.  Then I cleaned him up, putting on a new shirt, and he fell asleep.  I washed out the towel as best I could and returned to bed.

Fifteen minutes later, I heard the heaving noise.  I sprang across the bed, grabbing the towel that laid in between the boys.  I held Tornado S over it, noticing that Tornado S was still sleeping as he emptied more of his stomach.  When Tornado S was finished, I went back to bed, leaving the towel folded up near Tornado S, ready for more.

The Husband: What do you think is wrong with Tornado S?

Me: Dessert to close to bedtime.  Two nights before we left, Tornado S threw up because my dad fed him three cookies, a piece of pie, and some Papi candy.  Tornado S will be fine.  He doesn’t even have a fever.

The Husband was content and was snoring to wake the dead within seconds.  The Husband is notorious for his snoring.  His friends believe I’m a saint.  His snoring usually doesn’t bother me because I’m a heavy sleeper.  Not this night.  I lay awake for twenty minutes wondering if I put a pillow over him if it would quiet him enough for me to get some sleep or would that be murder and if he did accidentally die could I claim lack of sleep and frustration over vacation as an insanity plea or would this be manslaughter.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was waking up to a thump and crying.  It was four-thirty, and Tornado E had rolled out of bed, hitting his head on the night stand.  The Husband swore and picked Tornado E up, depositing him into our bed so I could soothe him.  Unlike the last hotel, this one didn’t have cheap chairs I could have moved around to make a gate to keep Tornado E from rolling out.  I had hoped my son had grown out of thrashing so much.  I was wrong.

A half an hour later, I was woken up by the screaming of the alarm as well as The Husband trying to fight it.  I hate beeping of alarms.  The Husband hates alarms.  I got up, went around the other side, removed the alarm from the monster paw, trying to bat it to death.  I shut off the alarm.

Me: Leaving Boston at 9am.  Brilliant.

The Husband muttered something incoherent that I chose to ignore than speculate on the negative reaction to my sarcasm.  He tried to roll over and sleep again.

Tornado E vomited all over my side of the bed.  The Husband thought it was a good time to get up.  We calmed down Tornado E and cleaned him up.  He stopped crying and looked at us.

Tornado E: Daddy’s funny.  Why’d he do that to the alarm?

Me: Because Daddy’s not a morning person.  How do you feel?

I took a quick shower to come out dressed to find that Tornado E was crying because he had pooped his diaper.  (He still wears pull-ups at night.)  The Husband shrugged, still trying to comfort Tornado E.  I checked.  It was a little diarrhea.  I calmed him down and changed him into underwear.  As I turned to finish packing, Tornado E vomited again.  I grabbed the last towel.  This did not bode well for our flight.  I packed the last pull-up into the diaper bag next to the last underwear of Tornado E’s.

The Husband: What are we going to do?

Me: We’re going to buy crackers when we fill up on gas.  I’m going to give him Mylocon drops in hopes that it can help settle his stomach.

We finished getting ready and began our trek to the Boston airport, stopping to get gas and crackers.  Tornado S refused food.  I should have guessed.  As we drove down the last freeway heading towards the airport, GPS being unreasonable helpful, Tornado S throw up, and there was nothing to catch it.  Luckily there wasn’t anything left in his stomach.

When we got to the rental place, I took Tornado S into the bathroom to strip him and dress him.  I also found out that he too had diarrhea.  Awesome.  We came to the unanimous decision to check Tornado S’s car seat and use Tornado E’s as we had learned coming in that air regulations does not allow for a car seat on the aisle.  Siblings should not be trusted next to each other on a long, cranky airplane ride.  We had already decided I would sit in the middle this time and have Tornado E out of his car seat.

I won’t go into the other gory details of the diarrhea.  I’ll just say that poor Tornado E was horrified that he leaked.  In the end, I had to put him into a Tornado S diaper in Dallas.  In the hour we waited during our lay over and boarded the next plane, I had to change Tornado S three times.  He did not leak.  By that time, I dreamt of getting home, filling the baby pool, stripping the boys, and letting them live outside in the back yard for the rest of the day.  Never mind the 109 degrees with no shade.  Never mind this was our thunderstorm season.  I was done.

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When you’re sick . . .

When you are sick, you may not disregard the rules.

        They are there to keep you from getting hurt, keep your mother’s sanity, which is basically the same thing.

 

 

When you are sick, you may not take the toy your brother is playing with.

        I know you think you get everything you want when your sick, like cartoons on all day and juice for meals, but you can’t take away toys.  You’re not a bully.

 

 

When you are sick and you’re playing with several cars or dragons or dinosaurs, you are still required to share.

        It goes back to you can’t have everything you want because you’re sick.  I’m not raising spoiled brats.

 

 

When you are sick, you are not allowed more tantrums.

        I understand you’re not feeling well, but you can cry it off in your room because you didn’t get your way again.

 

 

When you are sick, you do not have permission to drown your brother.

        You’re grumpy.  He’s grumpy.  I forced you into a bath to cool down the temperature.  I added bubbles.  Enough bubbles for everyone.  Stick on your side.

 

 

When you are sick, you are still not allowed to put soap in your brother’s eye.

        You know very well bubbles are soap.  Just don’t do it.

 

 

When you are sick, dessert is not a meal.

        Yes, I give you popsicles whenever you ask because you refused to eat anything, but cookies are not dinner.

 

 

When you are sick, it does not mean that you get a diaper whenever you feel like it.

        Guess what.  You’re potty trained (mostly).  You still have to use the potty when you need to pee.  Those are the rules; there is no going back.

 

 

Because you are regaining your strength, it does not mean you get to pick fights.

        I get it.  You’re bored.  You’re energetic.  Somewhat.  But we don’t fight.  We don’t hit.  We don’t push.  For the love of God, we don’t throw Spiderman toys.

 

 

Because you are regaining your strength, it does not allow for all out sword fights.

        Of any kind.  No plastic swords, no foam swords, no light sabers, and defiantly no wooden swords.  Watch the movie.  Don’t attack your brother.

 

 

Because you’re regaining your strength, it does not mean you can skip naptime.

        Even when you are extraordinarily healthy, I don’t let you skip naptime, so what makes you think today will be different?

 

 

Oh, right.  The eight fights.  The seven temper tantrums.  Before nap time.  After one of the brothers slept in.   I need some chocolate.

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A refusal to be sick

I woke up this morning with a runny nose and a sore throat, and I thought (because Evan had moved into our bed at about six, so I couldn’t actually say it) “F*** this!”  Obviously this illness didn’t get the message that I Don’t Get SICK.  It’s not my nature.  Sure, I had bronchitis this summer, with the high fever and chills in the middle of a July afternoon swim party, but that was the first time I ever got it.  And sure I got mono when I was in college, but it took appendicitis to bring it on.  Because I don’t get sick.

 

Now I can’t get sick, with Christmas weeks away, with the shopping not done, the wrapping not even started, the gingerbread mix waiting to be used, with the house in complete chaos.  If I go down with illness, this whole house goes down as no one will do the dishes or pick up or clean up or even empty out the potty.  Not to mention my husband is battling his cold, which means he’s dying, but he goes to work any ways because it’s December, the worst month for business.  Evan and Sean now have runny noses. 

 

So F this!

 

This morning I added an ester C pill (because I’m not going down without a fight), a prenatal pill (because they’re the best), and a cod liver pill (just because it seemed right) to my usual breakfast of Rice Krispies.  I drank tea and honey.  Ick.  I’ve been drinking water like a fish and peeing like a race horse.  I vow to go to bed early tonight.  I refuse to be sick.

 

Yes, I know.  I just wrote a post about Christmas, and I’m about to write another post about more Christmas crafts.  But you have to realize that due to cell phone issues, long distance call screw ups, and my best friend’s crazy schedule (youth minister at a church, Christmas coming, you figure it out), my best friend and I haven’t had a decent conversation in a week or two.  And I need to talk.  My best friend and I talk everyday for at least an hour like teenagers.  Like young lovers, we always part saying how we miss each other, even if we spent the whole day together two days before, and tell each other we love you.  Really, we’d make the cutest couple, but you know . . . heterosexual.  It’s a shame, really.  Ok.  So to the next post.

Missing Witch’s hat and Vomiting

I guess I should join the rest of the moms and talk about Halloween.  Unfortunately mine started the night before Halloween when I couldn’t find the witch’s hat for Evan’s costume, which means he believed he was a bat, a monster, a black knight.  Ok, whatever.  After my husband finally made it home, we loaded the kids in the car and went the city Halloween celebration, which was packed because we got there so late.  For some reason it felt like begging for candy and made my husband and I feel kind of weird.  Maybe it was all the kids with half-assed costumes (but that could have been valid reasons, right?), or maybe it was the fact that the lines became one giant line shuffling from store to store for one little piece of candy.  Any ways we left after an hour as Evan munched on candy.

 

He proceeded to munch on candy at home, asking one parent and then the other.  (Note: Must always ask the other parent if the child is asking for something.)  Then he told me he hid his candy when I told him no more.  It turns out he hid it in his mouth while he was hiding from me.  I found Starburst wrappers under the computer desk the next day. 

 

Then about 9:30 Evan started crying from his bed, and I ran up to chase away any monsters to find that he threw up.  Stupid candy.  Stupid husband who had to run an errand.  As I rushed around the room trying to figure out what to do first – clean the kid up, clean the sheets, shut the door, find the sheets – I silently cursed my husband.   Ok, grab towels and run the hot water for wash clothes.  Shut the door to keep Sean from waking up.  Dump the kid onto a towel on the floor.  Strip the child.  Murmur reassurances, and run to the bathroom to soak the washcloths in the now warm water.  Wipe down the child with more murmuring of reassurances, and quickly find any shirt (ANY SHIRT) to put the child in.  Put the child in the only other safe bed that he’ll stay in, mom’s and dad’s.  Then as you strip the bed you hear the garage door opening, and thank God he’s home.  Of course, the bed’s stripped and half made by the time the husband’s upstairs.  And being the kind hearted mother and wife, you have the husband soothe the child as you rinse the vomit out of the sheets in the kitchen and dump them on heavy load in the wash.  All the while, I have the following paragraph running in my head:

 

“Paloma, Patrick is throwing up!” I would tell her, and she would literally run to his room, clean the sheets, change his pajamas, spread a clean towel on his pillow, feed him ice chips, sing to him.  I would stand in the doorway, concerned, making faces at Patrick to cheer him up – the way my father did when I was sick and my mother was taking care of me. – Caitlin Flanagan, The Hell with All That: Loving and Loathing your Inner Housewife

 

Now you know why I hate her book so much.

 

Well, the night progressed with me coming to bed two hours later and catching Evan’s vomit in a bowl I had ready.  No, I didn’t want him to sleep in our bed because I didn’t want vomit in my hair.  But the pleas coming from both male occupants of the bed and the lucky catch made me agree.  And I was able to catch the vomit several more times and administer Motrin for the fever that ensued. 

 

So no ghost pancakes for Halloween, only ghost toast.  Sean enjoyed the roll up sandwiches to look like a back bone.  (Ok, I didn’t have my Halloween party; I need this.)  Evan instructed from the couch how I should cut the pumpkin as I wondered how I was going to get another witch’s hat.  As I put the boys to nap, missing my blog reading, as I talked on the phone to my old roommate and my best friend, I made brownies to shape into coffins, replaced the falling stars on the robe, and cleaned the living room and dining room up so trick-or-treating parents didn’t believe we lived in squalor.  When my husband came home to admit he forgot the hat and to assume child watching duties, I made broomstick breadsticks and a pizza with a cheese cobweb on it.  Did I ever mention I love Halloween?

 

We trick-or-treated early with Evan waving around a glow stick like a light saber.  Poor Evan was done after half a dozen houses, but Sean wanted to visit every house, so I had to hold him back.  I insisted on visiting our teenage babysitter’s house that’s two doors down.  (Yes, we are lucky, but she’s also young and extremely busy.)  There Evan gave every one the battery-operated tea lights that were decorating the house, insisting they will keep away monsters.  The mom was so thrilled by the idea of giving away the decorations she didn’t need and how cute Evan was, we ended up with a dozen of our own.  Yes, I find the lights cute.  With the safety of home, Evan stripped out of his costume and crashed on the couch.  But both boys had to greet every trick-or-treater, or “Halloween friends” as Evan called them, when ever the door bell rang.

 

At the end of the night, after the boys went to bed, the trick-or-treaters became teenagers.  Now I subscribe to my mother’s theory: better trick-or-treating than causing trouble.  So I loaded these teenagers up with candy.  Besides I had tons, and I am a recovering sugar addict.  Then when I went to bring in our jack-o-lantern so I could carve it up for breads, I noticed it was gone.  Those stupid teenagers!  Back in my day we had honor and would never steal decorations from a house who gave us candy, especially if it was loads of candy.  My husband didn’t understand why they would take it.  Oh, pumpkin smashing fun.

 

Oh, and yes, Evan is still sick, throwing up dinner from last night (he insisted on pizza, and yes, I’m an idiot for letting him eat it) and breakfast of peanut butter sandwiches (ok, I’m a slow learner).  It just better not be the flu.