Sick

Mama, I wish I had an extra eyelash right now.  If I did I'd wish that no one would ever be sick.
I'm sorry I threw up in the car.

I should have known on Saturday when Addie took a two hour nap on the couch that it was  a bad omen.  Instead I decided to enjoy a few hours of relative quiet more or less to myself (someone else was chattering away in her crib not sleeping). I should have know that my little ball of energy doesn't nap in the middle of a Saturday.


As I tucked Miss Addie in Sunday night she said Mommy, my tummy really hurts.  I brushed it off, sang her a song and headed downstairs.  A few hours later I popped my head in her room before turning in for the night.  She was serenely snuggled up with Doggie, Rose and a half dozen of her other friends. 
I drifted to sleep making a mental list of the things I wanted to accomplish this week:  workout, grocery shop, finish a few sewing projects, clean my closet, scrub the bathrooms, pack for Pittsburgh. 

Jess!  I need you to wake up!  I need you!

Andy already had Addie in the bathroom, holding a trash can, her soiled jammies discarded.  Her bedroom emanated the sickening smell of vomit, sheets all in a tangle, a bright red splash of throw up in the middle of her bed.
Without words we divided and conquered our midnight crisis.  Andy brought the soiled bedclothes and stuffed animals down to the laundry.  I started scrubbing the mattress, fumigating the room.  He got her in a warm shower; I found and cleaned up more vomit.  Doggie was gently scrubbed by hand.
By one o'clock Addie was tucked back in, Andy was back in bed, and I was making camp on a five year old's bedroom floor. 
At five a.m. we were back up sick with tears and confusion.  My camp became a bedroll for two with snuggles and a softly read princess story.  The rest of the day was similar - lots of sleep interrupted to be sick. 
Sick in the car on the way to Brenna's check up. 
Sick in the doctor's office. 
Sick after the Popsicle suggested by our beloved doctor.

Mama, I'm sorry I threw up on carpet.  I couldn't hear what my body was telling me.  I'm so sorry Mommy; you're the best Mama I know.

My usually very spunky animated kindergartner spent the day next to a bucket, sucking on ice cubes, snuggled into the corner of the couch, mostly sleeping.  At bedtime she insisted on sleeping on the floor because she was afraid of getting sick in bed. As I read one of her new favorites Every Cowgirl Needs Dancing Boots she drifted back off to sleep, snuggled up with a few of her friends who were unblemished from the night before.
By 9:45 she was in our room burning up.
By 2:15 I was snuggled next to her moaning little self on our floor bedroll.  She woke up a few times still feverish and sweaty.


 This morning she slept in - her usual sparkle is missing.  She is all long limbs and feverish skin, stretched out on the couch dozing and zoning out to Disney.  Tiny sips of water and a few bites of toast are all she wants.  My poor, sweet,  girl.


Mom, I just don't feel very much like me.  I feel like someone I don't even know at all.

Another day is planned on the couch, her resting while I disinfect everywhere else.

Thankful Thursday

What am I thankful for this Thursday?

• Four days with friends who always make me laugh - even if it resulted in one sick household.
• Amoxicillin and Lady and The Tramp.
• Crock pot dinner, chocolate and Glee with a gal pal.
• A neighbor who makes me feel included and always offers a beer.
• Having a few hours to myself, in a convertible, on a gorgeous day.
• Pretty as a Princess dance camp - even if it was cut short.
• Indoor/outdoor pillows.
• Feeling appreciated and loved.
• A nice glass of chilled Rose wine.
• Finally getting my hair short enough to make me smile.
• The return of my computer - oh how I missed you.

Thankful Thursdays

I had been toying around with making my Thursdays, here on the Internet, Thankful Thursdays.
Why Thankful Thursdays?
Because sometimes I complain a lot. Because sometimes I sound bitter. Because often I forget to be thankful for all things that make my life wonderful...

Because in college Thursdays meant the absolute beginning of the weekend.
Because after college Thursdays meant 50 cent tacos and dollar beers at the Sports Corner.
Because when we first started living together Thursdays were the day he came home from traveling and treated me to a dinner out.
Because Thursdays morphed into softball and beers and friends and the start of labor with her.
Because when I was just adjusting to living here, in the heart of it all, Thursday mornings became my salvation.

And then life got busy and Thursday mornings became a thing of the past.

And shortly thereafter, Thursdays meant "school" - Mother's Day Out. Four hours, every Thursday, when Addie goes to school. She plays with her pals (far too many to mention here), begs for her teachers' attention (god love Miss Marilyn and Miss Gail). She paints and colors and laughs until she's exhausted. She is in bliss.

Her bliss, of course, is nothing compared to mine. Some Thursdays I scrub the house from top to bottom. Some Thursdays I sit in the backyard and make landscaping plans. Other Thursdays I hit Kohls, Meijer, Kroger, Target, Home Depot and Costco - I leisurely walk the aisles and shop without trying to entertain a mini-me. I try things on, I read the back of books, I pick things up and plot. Next Thursday I'm getting a pedicure with two other Moms in the neighborhood while our kids are at "school".

Rosy cheeks & glassy eyes - not a good sign
This Thursday? This school day that I am so thankful for? I planned to grocery shop, clean the house and prepare for my long awaited guests.

Instead, however, I was snuggled next to an en fuego toddler - at 4 a.m. She tossed and turned and whined and cried. She was like hugging a sunburn - she wanted her back rubbed, her hand held, to be sung to.

She did not go to school. Her temp was 100.3, 102.5, 99.8, 101.3. She was uncomfortable. And grouchy. And unconsolable. She wanted her mommy. She wanted my lap. My arms. My hugs.
She wanted stories, attention, songs.
She wanted to cuddle and watch movies and be taken care of.

And she fell asleep on my lap, at 6:45, whimpering.

And strangely, I was thankful.

The Grandmother Curse

All that hand washing is for naught - another 10 days of amoxicillin has moved into our house.

There has been an alarming trend of Addison being with a Grandma and then getting sick.

Last December we went to pick up Gramma Kathy from the airport for her Christmas visit and poor little lady came down with one of the nastiest rashes I have ever seen. February 2009, we were visiting Gramma Kathy and Addie came down with a cold, a fever and another rash from hell. What an enjoyable flight home.

This past August we spent a few days playing with Papa and Grandma Johnson in Chicago and Addie came home covered in snot and coughing like an emphysema patient. A week later she spent the weekend with Grandma Patty, while we played in New Haven, and came home sounding even worse than her visit with Grandma Johnson, not to mention she had a raised blotchy rash all over. Ooops, turns out she had walking pneumonia.

We dropped her off this Saturday for some quality Grandma Patty time (translate: we had a neighborhood party to attend that had TONS of "grown up juice"). When we picked her up on Sunday morning her nose was practically cemented shut with boogers. She was hacking up a lung, her eyes were glassy and her cheeks were red.

Today our wonderful, adorable doctor (who I wish was my friend and that we went out for wine together) confirmed that, once again, Miss Thang was sick. Ear infection. Yucky throat. Mucusy cold. Ten days of amoxicillin prescribed and a referral to an ENT doctor.

Nope, they don't want to shove tubes in her ears. They would like to rip her tonsils out. Sweet little girl has "kissing tonsils" or almost kissing tonsils. I guess her tonsils are on their way to first base, but just a little shy of making it. Those stinking tonsils cause horrid snoring, occasionally raspy breathing and apparently exacerbate her colds.

While she has inherited my amazing coordination and grace, it seems she has inherited her Dad's lymphatic tissue. Turns out sweet husband of mine had killer tonsils as a child - big enough that they made it hard to understand what he was saying (how hard is it, I ask you, to understand GO!TAR!HEELS!). His were yanked out.

And soon we'll find out if hers will be too.

Sean + Ali = Vomit

Let's start at the very beginning....it's a very good place to start....

Almost two weeks ago I checked off the travel list:
Portable DVD player. Check.
Bag full of toys. Check.
Healthy snacks. Check.
Packed suitcases. Boarding passes. Check, check.

Off Addie and I flew to New England for nine autumn days with Gramma. Four planes later, we're back at home, readjusting to sleeping schedules and wishing Gramma was still around to change diapers and pour wine.

I mentioned last week that there are tales to be told...and the first one has very little to do with Addie. Nope this one is all about me, my poor decision making ability and my questionable choices in friends.

After arriving at Gramma's, late in the night, Addie wrapped herself around giraffe and snuggled up in the port-a-crib, snoozing blissfully until morning. On Friday we putzed around and lamented a rainy day, but I knew that rain was not going to ruin my plans. See, luckily for moi, two very good friends of mine live about 45 minutes from Mom, in Albany, New York. She is there finishing her ER residency and he is there desperately trying to figure out a way to get fired from his job. They're both counting the seconds until they can return to sweet home Chicago.

Ali drove over the mountains and met me at the outlets for some shopping before we headed back to their place for some drinks, dinner and fun. Addie kissed me goodbye and mom practically shoved me out the door in anticipation of one-on-one time with her littlest lady. Freedom.

Ali and I shopped and chatted and shopped some more. We drove to Albany, with my overnight bag, and uncorked some wine. We ate cheese, laughed, had a martini, laughed. We watched Sean make us dinner and we plotted our night ahead.

Dinner was lovely - rosemary roasted potatoes, smoked beer butt chicken and salad. Our martinis gone, we delved into two bottles of red from their impressive arsenal of wine. We laughed at each other and with each other and at our shared friends. It was lovely. By 11:45 I was in bed...In my pjs under the covers. Honk shoo honk shoo.

When I woke up I was groggy and had a bit of head ache, but okay. I showered, took up residence on their couch and waited for our day to start. Big plans for burgers and bloody marys were awaiting....but first....I hurled.

Yep. I christened their toilet in their newly refinished bathroom. Embarrassing? Yes. Par for the course if I have a tad too much to drink these days? Yes.

Hurling done, I was ready for lunch and feeling great.

Then the waitress but my burger down in front of me. I got a little hot feeling. I could hardly bare to smell or look at it. I excused myself to the oddest bar bathroom ever (all covered in chrome, mirrors and yellow) and I hurled some more.

Yep. I hurled in a public place. A lot. Did I want to hide my face? Yes. Was I a little more than embarrassed? Yes.

It was time to trek back to the Berkshires - I was feeling good enough and thinking about the mimosas Ali and I would sip. We got in their new car. It was shiny. It smelt like new car. It had all sorts of fancy buttons and screens - and I hurled again. In a bag, in their car, as we were heading to I-90.

Mortified. Check.

And then again, 5 miles from my Mom's house. And then two more times in the house I grew up in. I was feeling a little icky but overall decent, talking and laughing, and then bam - hurling. My stomach rejected Friday night's fun, three bites of a burger, a Pepcid and bottles of water.

I was BROKEN. While curled in a fetal position, demanding Ali use her doctor skills to fix me, I surrendered my rock star card.

Once and forever.

The days of mixing alcohol - gone. The days of drinking multiple martinis - gone. The days of bouncing back - gone. The days of being awesome - gone.

I say it loud and I say it proud - I am a Mommy NOT a rock star.

Ali and Sean broke me. Maybe permanently. But that isn't really the big story about those 36 hours - the big story is that Addison made a decision on Friday night that has pretty much changed my entire world.

But more on that later.

Sniffle Sniffle

It's silly I know. But when I don't feel good I want to be taken care of. I want to be made Acini di Pepe with Parmesan. I want to curl into a ball and watch mindless television. I want to sleep until I feel like waking up. I want to moan and complain and not feel guilty about it.

I am not one of those people who gets "sorta" sick. Usually, when I am sick, I am down for the count.

I have the knack for being stupidly sick. A cold that lasts days, a flu that lasts weeks. In mid-January, like clockwork, I get my arse kicked by something that forces me to stay in bed, chewing Halls, blowing my nose a thousand times, sweating and shaking with the chills. It's lovely.

And lucky me, over the past four-ish days I have been sick. Jessica sick.
I woke up in Cleveland with sore throat on Sunday. At lunch it was a wickedly uncomfortable throat. By the time we were driving south on I-71 it was on fire. And I was clammy. And achy. Then the sneezing started, and the endlessly running nose.

Oh, and did I mention that my mini-me was coughing? And sneezing? And had a green river of goo flowing out of her nose? And had sad, glassy eyes?

Turns out when you're sick, and you're the mommy, and your kiddo is sick...there is no time for you to be taken care of. You've got to be a little tougher. You drop $45 in medicine and tissues and cough drops at CVS. You watch The Lion King because it makes the little one happy and less snuffly. And you go to bed at 8:45, fifteen minutes after the kiddo goes to bed, and you don't feel guilty about it.

It also turns out that the little one bounces back faster and doesn't particularly care if you have bounced back or not. She wakes up at 6:30 ready to take on the world. She wants to color, to play her game (more on that game at another time), she wants to jump and hop and go to the park and story time and down the slide in the back yard.

So I've learned, when they bounce back, you fake it. You go to park, and story time, and into the backyard armed with hand sanitizer, and Halls, and tissues in your purse. And you remember fondly the days when your mommy would rent you The Princess Bride and let you lay on the couch and take care of you.

And you get over it, because there is a nose to wipe, and it's not yours.