My baby is an EEL!!! (And I cried about it)

Ok, let me explain. Long story short, swim lessons at the YMCA are divided into classes named after sea creatures: Shrimp, starfish, rays, dolphins, eels- you get the point.
Well Jeff & I both thought it incredibly important to start our kiddos young-- as in, the youngest possible age allowed to do swim lessons-- which happened to be 6 months old. We never wanted them to be fearful of the water and wanted them to have the skills early on to be able to swim if an emergency situation warranted it.

That said, Ava began swim lessons in March of 2006, just a week shy of 6 months old (look how teeny-tiny she was!)

 

 

From day 1, she has loved swimming. Even as an infant, I recall the instructor telling us "Wow, most babies at this age won't lay so still  & calm on their backs like that with their ears submerged underwater, because they don't like the feeling. She is doing awesome!"
And from that day on, she was a natural.  The summer before she turned three, she was (more or less) swimming comfortably by herself up at the lake in Maine. Jumping off the dock, fearless, completely submerging herself and then swimming to shore. It was music to my eyes to see that the 2.5 years of swim lessons at the Y had finally paid off!

And so we've continued to keep up with the swim lessons through the years, and this morning was the last day of this winter session.  At the end of class, her teacher handed her a highly coveted graduation slip-- that she had successfully graduated from Pike, to EEL!!! This is a tremendous step.  In order to graduate to this level, a child must be able to swim two pool-lengths without a bubble!!! (bubble = the YMCA version of a floatie thingy that they wear around their waist, in case you were curious), do a pencil dive & touch the bottom, jump off the diving board platform unassisted and swim to the side, and swim/float on her back.  During the final minutes of class, we watched as she passed (and surpassed) all of the above with flying colors.  She unhooked her bubble from her waist, tossing it to the side of the pool deck, and plummeted into the pool fearlessly.  And then, smiling at me from the water, said

"Momma look at me! I'm doing it, I'm doing it!!! I can be an EEL now!!!"

As I sat there on the pool-deck bench, tears of maternal pride streaming down my cheeks while I watched my newly coined Eel swimming freely in the water below, I glanced down at her bubble laying limp at my feet.  I thought about the first time I wrapped it around her little tiny waist (she couldn't have been more than 18 months old at the time.)  I thought about how, over the years, we have slowly removed one styrofoam layer of the bubble at a time (in order to lessen the amount of buoyancy that it offered)...and watched her flourish aquatically.  And now here it was, a useless prop strewn on the floor at my feet, while my "baby" swam confidently in the deep end of the Olympic-sized pool without it.


Ahhh well....Just another one of life's little (big!) milestones that reminds me how quickly this journey of Mommyhood is flying by... And to fully immerse myself in every proud, memorable, remarkable second of it.  :-)

Oh, and p.s. I think someone else may be following in big sissy's footsteps- Gav started swim lessons for the first time this week and LOVED them, too! :-)

"Mommy, can you PLEASE take a shower?"

Me: "Umm, okay, but why do you say it like that?"

Ava: "Because Momma, it's been two days. And you're starting to smell funny....like... roast beef."




And on that note, that's pretty much all for today. Off to take a shower now...because if there's one thing you can count on a four-year-old for, it's brutal honesty.

(oh and p.s. the only reason it's been 48 hours since my last shower is because I was afraid I might slip, fall and die if I tried to shower while on all of that heavy-duty pain medication. So no judging please. Thanks)
;-)

An Avaism to make your day

While I am in a 1/2-coherent state upstairs in the recliner, completely zoning out on pain meds, I hear the following conversation downstairs in the playroom:

Daddy:  "Aves, I just love all of your new artwork! I think you should do more projects like these and decorate the whole playroom with them!" (we hang all of her artwork all around the walls of her playroom)

A: "You mean, like, lots more?"

Daddy: "Yeah! They are beautiful! We should hang them up for the whole world to see."

A: (in uber-excited tone:)  "The WHOLE WIDE WORLD? Like everybody in the Hoo-nited States? and Africa? and Eng-lah? and even everyone in Chinese?"

Daddy: (hysterical laughter) "Yes baby, everyone in the whole wide world...!"

Honestly...who comes up with these things?!

As a Momma, I've spent a fair amount of time over the years on sites like Ticketmaster, attempting to score fantastic seats to such (riveting) events as Backyardigans Live, Dora in concert, Nick Jr. Live, Disney Princesses on Ice, Elmo onStage, and, most recently, Curious George Live.

Having said this, most of you are probably familiar with the captcha  test that you are required to participate in, (in order to let the site know that you are indeed a human and not a computer,)  before you are allowed to proceed to purchase the tickets.

Well is it me, or have these Captcha tests become increasingly more bizarre over the years?

Back in the day, they would require relatively simple codes: "hello 5" or "name 12" and so on.

Well these freaking things have become so incredibly bizarre, I am 200% convinced that they are created solely by a room-full of people tripping on acid and/or magical mushrooms while listening to The Best of Bob Marley.

What's that, you say? You'd like proof?  Well then, it's a good thing that I decided to jot some of them down during my most recent Ticketmaster experience (last night), as I searched for decent Curious George Live tickets for Aves. So, without further ado, may I present to you: "Completely weird Captcha tests that I was made to unscramble in order to buy Curious George tickets."



Gullible Barbados

Razor grimmest

Wounded spouses

Neck dustier

Lust consistently

Sanchez muzzles

Timbuktu neutered

Politician lush

Burping goblet

Kiosk vendetta

Iguana urn

Mr. grumbles

Hairnet o’clock

Nipple tattling

Cheddar cartilage

Pudgier yeti

Of buttocks

Headman troll

Monsoon 15-year-old

Bitten busts

Weasel massacres

Slurping exorcism

President-elect bladders

Prostitute slovenia

I personally got the biggest chuckles from "Sanchez muzzles" and "Nipple tattling"...(although "pudgier yeti" is definitely a close second.)

And so, my avid blog stalkers readers, do you have any bizarro Captcha stories that you'd like to share?? If so, please feel free. Especially in day 3 of my valium-induced state, I'm sure they will give me an excellent chuckle  :-)

A perfect example of why Jeff shouldn't allow Ava to ask me questions when I am chock-full-o-valium

Let me set the stage for you: I am one hour into my second valium-vicodin-ibuprofin cocktail of the day, (per my Dr's strict orders)  to alleviate the major spasms in my back that aren't subsiding.  The room is starting to spin, I am feeling woozy, my limbs don't feel like they are attached to my torso anymore, and so I retire to my bedroom to try and sleep it off. About twenty minutes later, Jeff brings Aves in, and the two of them plop down on the bed.


J: "Hey babe? Ava has a question for you- well, for us. I know you're not feeling good right now but could you just help us out for a second?"


T: "Finnnnnnnne" I mutter, and drag my drooling, space-shot self out from under the cave-o-blankets that I have been hiding beneath.


J: "Ok Ava, ask Mommy your question."

A: "Mommy, when Daddy was changing Gav's diaper today I noticed that he has this other little pink hangy thing underneath his noodle. I asked Daddy what it was and he said another part of his noodle, but it doesn't look like his regular noodle, it looks different. So, what is it?"


T: "It's his sack. Plain and simple. A sack. A sack-full-o-nuggets," I (apparently) respond.


A:  "Nuggets?! In a sack?!" Ava giggles.

A horrified Jeff shoots me an 'I can't believe you just said that' kind of a look and then intervenes:  "It's called a scrotum," he tells her.


A: "A what?" she responds, confused.


For some reason, (probably the valium,) I find the word "scrotum" completely laughable at this point and can't even say it out loud, so I confirm to her "Don't worry honey, it's called a SACK."

"Scrotum!" retaliates Jeff.

I get a case of uncontrollable giggles at this point and burrow back under the blankets as Jeff moves the troops out of my room.

But before he closes the door, he looks at me and mouths, "Sack!? Really Trace? That's the best you could come up with!?"

"Why actually yes, yes it is at this point," I cheerfully respond, and continue giggling like a school-girl as I listen to my daughter chant "It's a sack, it's a sack, Gavin has a sack!" down the hallway.


MORAL OF THE STORY: NEVER ask your doped-up wife to discuss the clinical terminology of male anatomy with your four-year old daughter. Most likely, it won't end well   :-)

Drugs = strange dreams

So over the past few days, with the assistance of the very heavy-duty (LEGAL & PERSCRIBED) narcotics for the back pain & spasms I've been enduring, I've had quite the interesting slew of dreams:

1. That my Mom, while here taking care of the kids on Monday, sat in Gavin's room smoking cigarettes over his crib and blowing the smoke directly at him, and didn't understand my anger when I confronted her about this!?  (*sidenote, my Mom quit smoking a few years ago now)

2. That Gav took his first steps and began talking while I was laying in bed with back pain, and I was moved to tears to have missed it!

3. That Oprah came to my house to make grilled cheese sandwiches for our family, and at the end of her evening here, she pointed to all of us at the table and yelled (as she passed out the sandwiches to us) "YOU get a grilled cheese! YOU get a grilled cheese! YOU get a grilled cheese!!!!!" and so on.

4. That I was involved in a massive game of hide-and-go-seek at my summer house in Maine and hid in the boat house for days before anyone found me.

5.  That I had a fabulous lunch in Amherst center with 80's tv personality Mayim Bialik, better known as Blossom, and that we discussed how she wished I was cast as her best friend Six in the sitcom, but I was just too young at the time.

 6. That Jeff & I took an impromptu trip to beautiful Barbados...feet in the sand, massive frosty beverages with little umbrellas, and native woman braiding my hair into cornrows.  Pure heaven. (that was certainly a dream I didn't want to wake up from)

Like I've said before, the only 2 times in my life when I seem to have completely vivid, bizarre dreams are when I am pregnant and when I'm on serious pain meds. And I will again reiterate that in this case it is definitely the pain meds  (...otherwise, this Lucy would have some serious 'splainin' to do, Desi.)

Screw you, latissimus dorsi

Who ever would have known that pulling a back muscle and pinching a major nerve would be so debilitating? As in, completely-out-of-commission, your husband has to re-reschedule his work trip, can't lift your 7-month old son, can't even lift a glass of water, out-of-commission?

It all started Monday. My frantic day. Get everyone up/dressed/out the door by 8:30, get Aves to school, run misc. household errands, pick her up from school, grab lunch, run to ballet, change her into ballet attire, home by 3:30pm. Well since lunch went a little longer than expected, we got to ballet late and as I was rushing to help her into her leotard, the baby started flailing in his car seat... and as I jerked my upper body to grab him....PING. And a pop. And the most excruciating, tingling, stabbing pain ever to have existed in my body.

That is the only/best way I can describe it. Like a massive rubber band was stretched 100 times past its maximun capacity and just exploded. I choked back the tears, asked the other moms to keep an eye on Gav for me, and crawled (literally) into the dance studio office to use their phone. Thank GOD I was able to get in touch with the hubby before he was on the plane to leave for the week, told him what happened, and begged him to re-schedule his flight for the next morning so that I could be seen at the walk-in clinic that night.  I apologized to him profusely, reminding him repeatedly that "I know this is not good timing" but that something was definitely wrong here.

With help to the car, (I couldn't lift the diaper bag/Ava's ballet bag/and obviously not the baby in his car seat), I barely made it home driving with the kiddos. Jeff met us there and about ten minutes later, it was off to the clinic.  Given the amount of pain I was in and that I could barely stand up, I was called in right away.  Nurses came in, took my vitals, and before I knew it everything was a whirlwind of laying me down in the hospital bed, oxygen masks, and "we need you to relax and take some deep breaths for us..."

Completely bewildered I asked "What the heck is going on!? It is my BACK that hurts, why do I need oxygen?!"  The nurses kept answering me with "stay calm and try to breathe."

Next thing I know I am at Radiology for a chest X-ray....what?!  I try explaining to the technician that I must be here for the wrong reason, it is my BACK that is in pain, not my chest.

At least the X-ray tech gave me an answer:  "Your saturation levels were low-- 82 to be exact, which means that you are not getting enough oxygen. We need to make sure everything is okay with your lungs."

So off I go for my second X-ray in 7 days, fully convinced that the radiation is going to kill me.  Swell.

Back upstairs to see the Dr., who reports that my lungs look fine but that my oxygen levels are still low. He asks me if I feel shortness of breath and I tell him yes, since the muscle spasms are so bad, I am unable to take a deep breath.  He writes me perscriptions for a muscle relaxer and a heavy-duty pain med and tells me that I will be "as good as dead" to my kids while on this stuff and to enlist full-time help until Friday.

I chuckle to myself, and tell Doc that of all weeks for this to have occurred, the hubby needs to be on a plane tomorrow for DC for the remainder of the week. Doc responds with: 

"Listen, I get it- the whole, he's the breadwinner, you stay home with the kids, dynamic. Believe me, I get it. And although this may not be classified as a life-threatening emergency, it is definitely a medical crisis. You CANNOT be home alone with your kiddos while on these meds, and unfortunately you need to be on them religiously to help the pinched nerve and pulled muscles relax and stop spasm-ing...So do what you need to do, but you are going to need to rely heavily on the help of others this week."


Fan-freaking-tastic. Of ALL WEEKS....this can't be happening right now.  I am annoyed, stressed out, and in the most physical agony I've ever been in, (next to chidbirth).

Once home, Jeff & I decide to enlist help for Tuesday at least and call my Mom who agrees to call in sick the next day to help us out. (Thank you Mom). Jeff leaves at 4am for a flight out that morning, and my Mom mans the fort ALL DAY with both kids. I am impressed as I listen to their day full of laughter and- no tears (?!)- from my bedroom.  She stays until 11pm, and Jeff gets home around midnight.

When Jeff walks in the door he is tired beyond any amount of exhaustion humanly possible, since he has been up for 21 hours straight at this point, and he still has a few hours of work to catch up on.  Off to bed I go with the help of my friends, muscle relaxer and Vicodin, and before I know it, morning has come and another day of agony for my back. (this is confirmed as I try and sit up).  Jeff gets Ava to school (an hour late--oops) and takes the baby to the office with him for a couple of hours to get a few things done. The remainder of the day, I spend in bed and off to another Dr. appointment to make sure that there is nothing more that can be done.  I implore him- "Is there anything other than these mind-altering medications that I can use, so that my husband doesn't have to take more time off??"

He regretfully tells me that, unfortunately, these are the only things that will help the spasms to subside and that I need to take them religiously in order to help alleviate the pain.   He closes our session with the obligatory,

 "...and remember, do not operate heavy machinery, use sharp knives, drive, or be alone with  your kids while on this stuff, okay?"

I ponder a smart-ass response to the effect of, "Well, there goes my shot at winning the zucchini-chopping contest while driving a backhoe with my daughter later on today..."

But the muscle relaxer that I just took an hour ago has suddenly made me hazy & sluggish again, and he is lucky that I am able to mutter a dopey "Uhhh-huh."

And so here I sit typing this, heating pad at full-throttle on my back and my third round of meds (hopefully) kicking in soon....a very stressed out hubby worried about work...and a house that's been turned upside-down in a matter of 48 hours.

In conclusion...life could definitely be better right now. Much better.

How to get an uptight businessman to spit out his coffee:

After picking Aves up from school today, we made a quick pit-stop at the local bagel shop because she wanted a bagel for lunch.

As we sat munching our delectable bagel sandwiches, (Gav propped up in a high chair devouring cheerios,) I asked Aves about her day at school.

Me: "So, what did you learn about today?"

A: "Lots of things...like...umm, trees- I learned all about the maple tree today!"

Me: "Wow, cool baby! What else?"

A: "Oh! And we learned all about the letter F. I can even draw a little F too now! Just like this." (she draws a big F, then little F, in the air with her cream-cheese covered pointer finger. Adorable.)

Me: "And what was your job today at school?"

A: "I was weather girl. I got to tell everyone that it was cold outside but sunny too."

Me: "Good girl! Sounds like you had a really great day. And what did you have for snack?"

A: (thinking hard about it, looking up, trying to remember...and then exclaims extremely loudly,)  "Oh, I remember! We had graham CRAPPERS. Mommy, they were the BEST crappers I've ever had. Can we get crappers like those and bring them home?"

(businessman sitting at table adjacent to us nearly spits out his coffee all over his laptop and starts laughing to himself)

Me: "Yes, of course we can buy some graham CRAPPERS. They sound delicious!!"

Love the little moments like this!!!


p.s. also, today was the highly anticipated Preschool picture day!!! Here were some of the pics we took at home this morning before heading out the door to school...please note her rockin' new 'do and her picture day outfit that she chose all by herself. Oh, and her new-found obsession with thumbs-upping in every single photo opp. She was very proud  :-)

In conclusion, I can't wait to see how her first school pictures came out, without the assistance of her Momma & a comb. Can't wait!

Dear (Cotton) Undies,

I need to confront you about something, and it probably isn't going to be comfortable for either of us...but it all must be said. So here goes.

What the hell has happened to our relationship since the birth of my children!?!? All of the adorable, frilly, satin-y pairs of you have mysteriously gone missing, now replaced (seemingly permanently) with your very practical, 100% cotton, full coverage "brief" counterparts. Yikes.  I am beyond sick and tired of folding laundry and wondering why on earth Jeff washed a massive, pastel green parachute-- only to soon realize that said parachute is actually not a parachute, but rather a pair of Grannie panties-- my Grannie panties.  (And for the record, and for the first time ever, I completely understand why this nickname was coined...when I look at a stack of my undies these days, it literally looks like to went to my grandmother's house and raided her drawers.)

You and I promised ourselves that the affair would be a short and sweet one, only to last for the post-partum weeks while my c-section scar healed and all of the other gross-ness of labor & delivery subsided.  So why-- 7 months later-- are you still the predominant undies of choice in my drawer?
Is it your patented comfort-flex elastic waistband? The fact that you are much more flattering on my post-baby tummy pouch than a satin thong might be these days?  Have I gone practical in my maternal years, realizing that all the things my mother told me growing up (that cotton lets you "breathe" more, and is better for your lady parts)  are actually true? Or is it, plain and simple, the undeniable, unparalleled comfort of cotton?

Cotton undies, as much as I loved our time together in the beginning, my husband is getting damn tired of seeing you on my butt cheeks, and I can't blame him.  I wouldn't mind getting together with you on occasion- say, the one week a month when womanhood will have me requiring your assistance.  But this every day thing is beyond ludicrous. I'm putting my foot down and reclaiming some of my saucy, womanly pride.  All it'll take is a Secret trip to my friend Victoria's, and a few dollars worth of some new racy, sensual, "I wasn't made with an 82-year-old woman in mind" undies. (no offense.)

Underoos of cotton, thanks for listening to me. I truly do hope that we can move forward from here, and still be friends. (sorry to be so cliche.)  Thank you for all of your hard work and dedication over the past several months. You were dependable, breathable, and always comfortable when I needed you to be, and there will always remain a place for you in my heart. (and on my bum.)

Warmest wishes for a pleasant stay for you at the back of the underwear drawer,

You can file this one under: Things that make me go 'Hmmmm'

This morning, as I sat rocking my precious baby boy in his room (per our usual pre-nap ritual,) the scene was typical for any other morning around this time: Gav & I snuggled together in the glider in the corner, shades drawn, the only sounds the soft hum of his humidifier, and his sleepy little yawns. This is usually the only quiet, intimate time that we get, just the two of us each day, and I feel confident that I spend it well:  examining his tiny fingers with mine, stroking his silky blond hair, caressing his soft, pudgy cheeks, and pleasantly enjoying this bond of mother and son as he drifts off into dreamland on my chest.  The only thing that differentiated today from any other was that it took him a bit longer than usual to fall asleep, since his nose was still all stuffy from last week's sickness,  and therefore getting comfy proved a bit more difficult.

That said, I spent some of this extra time quietly staring around his room, just looking at everything around us; his adorable froggy-inspired crib, his closet chock-full-o-clothes, the humidifier vapor rising into the air, the letters on his wall, the-



Wait a minute.

Let's go back to that "letters on his wall" part.

My eyes traveled back to the strategically placed letters hanging above his changing table:

They'd been hanging there since well before his birth, but today, something jumped out at me.  Maybe it's the fact that I'm a writer and am always looking at and analyzing letters and words more so than the average Joe. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Maybe it's the tail end of this virus that has all but knocked me out cold-- But for some reason, a strange thing hit me today as I stared long and hard at my son's name on the wall....

If you rearrange the letters in just the right way, my strong, masculine son's name

g    a    v    i    n   

has the ability to become...



v    a    g    i    n .




Now I don't even know if this word exists, but it seems like the perfect candidate for the Frenchman's (or, Borat's) version of "vagina," especially if you put the stress on the "i" (like "vah-JEEN")

How did I not ever realize that my little boy's name is an anagram for female genitalia?!  Whoops. Sorry about that, little Gav.... let's just hope that:

1. your Momma is the only one crazy enough to have noticed this,
2. you never, ever have a "find anagrams of your first name!" assignment in elementary school, and
3. in High School, your lacrosse buddies don't make this realization. Ever. 

Beethoven may have been a musical prodigy....

But he sure wasn't this chock-full-o-CUTENESS!!!

We like to have fun around here. And lots of times in our household, the equation is pretty simple:

Fun = Anything Musical. 

This was the completely uninhibited musical chaos bliss that occurred in our living room today, thanks to Daddy digging out his dusty old (circa 1996) high-school keyboard from the basement and letting the kiddos go crazy.

(And in case you are wondering, the answer is YES, it absolutely was as awesome as it appears  :-)

(*Please contact myself or Jeff if interested in booking these two for your private function...they are available for any sort of gig, especially night club piano entertainment, provided that they are home & in jammies by 7pm. (7:30 on weekends.) They charge a flat fee of 2 ice cream cones and a trip to Build-a-Bear.)

Tonight's dinnertime conversation with little lady

Aves: "Momma, wouldn't it be SO COOL if we had a massive swing-set out in the yard...like bigger than the one out there now?"

Me: "I guess so, but what would make a bigger one better?"

A: "Because it would have things like a super-duper speed racer twirly whirly yellow slide...and a club house and you and me could be the ONLY ones allowed and we could sing songs in it like this: 'No boys a-looooo-oowed, No boys a-looooo-oowed' and so no boys could be there, and we could do thing like paint our nails up there, and eat popcorn and cotton candy and watch Barbie movies with NO drooly brothers or stinky Daddies to worry about!"

Me: "Wow, that sounds-"

A: "Momma I'm not done telling you all about it! It would also have a magical giant rainbow trampoline...and you would jump so high, like WAY high that you would flip over and bounce on your bum ALL the way up to the moon!!!!"

Me: "To the moon?!"

A: (eyes wide open and panting for breath at this point) "Yes Mommy to the MOON! All the way up there!! And you could even wish on shooting stars on the way up there!!!!" (excitedly get off her chair to use full-body gestures for the remainder of story)

Me: "And when we got to the moon, what would we do?!"

A: "LOTS OF THINGS!!! Like jumping jacks, and bake cookies, and play with our American Girl dolls!! And then....we would jump like this and ZOOOOM back down to the rainbow trampoline and it would be the most funnest day of our ENTIRE lives!!!!!!!!!!!!"


Dear Aves, Thank you so much for keeping me a kid at heart via our dinnertime conversations. I love seeing the magic & fascination of the world through your incredibly imaginative eyes...you certainly march to the beat of your own little drum, and in doing so you never fail to bring a chuckle to my lips and a smile to my heart.... (& I can't wait for that day when we bounce to the moon together!)        Love you billions, Momma

There must have been some magic in that old silk hat....

Ahhhh, a little girl-on-the-mend and her Frosty. Her proud, rosy-cheeked smile is at least something redeeming about the sick, miserable, cold New England winter that we've endured!

With all this bad...how about some GOOD??

It's been pretty easy to become consumed with all the bad news, the sickness, and the consequently negative energy in this household lately, as evident by my most recent posts.

Well, this pains me because despite the yucky slew of days we've endured here, we've got some pretty big, fantastic, exciting news that seems to have slipped through the cracks:

Gav is CRAWLING!!!!!

Yes folks, you heard it here first.  Friday, February 12th, 2010 was the big day (making him just about 7 months and 1 week old) and I am so thankful that I happened to have my camera nearby to capture this precious moment. So without further ado, may I please present to you, my baby boy on the move!  (*please note the AMAZING, beautiful, bright eye-d smiles as he reaches his crawling destinations and feels so proud of himself!)

Valentine's Day weekend (2 of 2)

(cont'd...)

Thank God, we make it to the ER in about 10 minutes flat without me throwing up or passing out. Yes!  Mom gets a phenomenal parking spot right near the door which is crucial tonight, since my chills/fever are out of control and the temperature outside is about 17 degrees.  The brisk, wintery New England air stings the small part of my face that is exposed as we walk to the doors, and I shudder.  Brrrrr.

As we enter the ER waiting room, I am immediately overcome by a panicked sense of OCD that might actually rival my husband's; People hacking juicy coughs into blue surgeon masks, an elderly woman laying on a stretcher vomiting into a pink, kidney-shaped bowl, a teenage boy with his bloody arm in a makeshift sling, to name a few.  I can almost feel the germs climbing off of these people, scurrying across the floor, and burrowing themselves any of my exposed mucous membranes. GROSS.

I walk right up to the receptionist and tell her why I am here: "Hi, the on-call Dr. - Dr. Sullivan- wanted me to be seen immediately for a potential pneumonia."

At this point, my mom drags a chair from the waiting room for me since I am swaying back and fourth, pale in the face, and may very well pass out at any moment.

Nasty receptionist barks at her, "Leave that chair there! She can stand for just a minute!"

My mom isn't pleased with this “friendly” welcome and glares at the woman, who then turns to me and shouts "You better speak up, I didn't hear a THING you said to me a minute ago."

My mom, again unimpressed by this rudeness and all too-aware of the state I am in, chimes back at her: "Her ears are completely clogged and her fever is almost 105. Maybe if you let her sit down and relax she could speak up better!"

Rude receptionist rolls her eyes and begrudgingly agrees to let me sit down in a chair. 

She then proceeds to ask me a slew of questions that I am unarguably in no state to be answering.

"What is your race?"
"Cuban/American."
"Well, which is it- Cuban or American?"
"Umm, okay then, American?"
"Ethnicity?"
"White."
(rudely chuckling at me) "Sweetheart, you must mean Hispanic if  you call yourself Cuban, right?"
"Fine. Hispanic, whatever." (at this point, 'Native American/Other' would have been completely acceptable to me.)
"Do you have a health care proxy?"
"Don't know."
"Are you an organ donor?"
"No."
"Would you like to be?"
"Preferably not tonight."
(she doesn't find this funny.)
"Would you like a member of the Catholic Archdioces to read you last rites if warranted during this visit?"
"Umm...no? I mean yes? I dunno, sure. But I'd also like not to die tonight."
(she is still remarkably unimpressed by my stale, fever-induced attempt at humor.)
"Do you feel safe at home?"
"Yes."
"Smoking, drinking, recreational drugs in the past year?"
"No, just wine on occasion."
"Define 'occasion'."
"Don't know, maybe once a week?"
(annoyed as she exaggeratedly pounds the DEL button on her keyboard to change my answer) "Ok, so that is a YES then."
"Fine. Are we done?"
"Yes, please sign here indicating that you have read....."

I completely zone out at this point, just sign my Hispanic life away on the dotted line, and walk over to where my mom is sitting, slumping over in the seat next to her. So glad to be done with rudest reception lady ever.

In the hour that transpires as we wait in the waiting room, a young woman and her fiance (who had definitely been out for a Valentine's day date, given their dapper attire, ) come storming through the doors, as she repeatedly vomits into a freezer-size Ziploc bag. 

Swell, I think as she decides to sit TWO SEATS AWAY FROM ME. Just what I need- now I will be getting the  stomach bug too. 

She vomits atleast 3 times into this sad, dilapidated Ziploc-o-puke, and I am very confused as to why she is allowed to sit out here in the open, exposing the rest of us to this vile bug.  At this point, my face is completely burrowed into my coat and my jacket hood is on tight, much resembling the homemade get-up of a novice bank robber.  I just keep telling myself, "I will NOT get the stomach bug, I will NOT get the stomach bug..." and hope for the best.

Apparently I doze of for a bit after this, and the next thing I remember is a sweet-as-pie nurse named Amy taking me in for my chest X-ray.    I think to myself, Good to know at least some friendly people work here!

After Amy is done with me, a male nurse named Josh-- who looks about 16 years old-- asks Amy to "please steal this lovely young lady for some bloodwork and an EKG?" and with this request, takes my arm in his and escorts me down the hall.  
 Ha! ‘Lovely young lady?’  I chuckle to myself. I haven't showered in 3 days, my breath is atrocious, and my leg hair is longer than a Wookie's. I quickly deduce that after a few minutes alone in the EKG room with me, Josh will no longer be referring to me by this adorable pet name.
So into the small room we go, Josh the male nurse and I.  He sort of resembles a young Anthony Michael Hall but with glasses. (Basically…a younger, male version of yours truly.)  He makes small talk which immediately puts me at ease. Typical stuff; what brought you here, what an awful way to spend Valentine’s day evening, etc…  He withdraws 6 vials of blood from the top of my hand since the rest of my veins are too deep to reach, and I am stunned.

“Wow, you are the first person ever  to get my vein on the first try!”


“I never miss,” he remarked confidently, and smiled. “Ok, time for the EKG,” he stated as he began to loosen the sexy, sandpaper-soft Johnnie that I was wearing. “Ever had one of these?”



“Don’t believe so,” I replied.


“Ok then..”  and he began sticking tiny little adhesive stickers to my shoulders, arms, and calves. (I’m pretty sure he had to comb apart an area of unruly leg hair to do so. No joke.)

“Ok, so the EKG won’t hurt at all, but I am going to need you to please lift up your breasts for me.”

Umm, pardonne moi? This request caught me a little off-guard.


He must’ve sensed the confusion in my face and immediately followed this statement with
“I need to get these sticky little thingies under there, and to be honest—my girlfriend works down the hall. I try to life as few boobies as possible so I won’t get in trouble—especially on Valentine’s Day!”

I am completely amused by his sense of humor and feel oddly comfortable lifting the boobies for him, (despite the sad fact that this is more a$$ than Jeff will get this Valentine’s Day.) And so he completes the EKG, and we sit there talking for another fifteen minutes about complete randomness—his Bosnian girlfriend, the fact that his grandfather’s grandfather translated the Lutheran version of the Bible, that is is actually 25 years old just looks perpetually 14, his days at Gordon College, and the fact that he doesn’t mind missing V-day with his girlfriend since “every day should be equally romantic.” 

 I felt like responding “Ha! Just wait til your days revolve around runny-nosed kiddos, play-dates, grocery shopping, and mountains of laundry!”  

But alas, it was Valentine’s day, and he was a real sweetheart…and so I let him have his dream.




Josh told me that it was nice doing business with me, and I said the same, and he (finally) took me to a “real” room with a comfy hospital bed and some privacy. As soon as I lay down, I began shivering profusely again, and he brought me a “fresh out of the oven,” toasty warm hospital blanket- HEAVEN.  He rubbed my hand for a bit and stayed with  me until the chills subsided, ordered me more Tylenol, and then bid me adieu, telling me that he’d send my Mom in right away.


I was very impressed with his services, and swore that I’d send a gloating review of him to the Board of Directors at the hospital.



A few minutes later, my Mom came to sit in my room with me.  Another nurse popped her head in and turned the TV on for us.   

“Hi ladies, not sure how long the Dr. will be, so you may want to get comfortable!” she warned us.

I stayed huddled on my right side under the cozy warm blanket, and drifted in and out of coherency for the next two hours.   (I was desperately hoping that the conversation between a nurse and an elderly woman that seemed to occur right outside my wide-open door -regarding “the drippy Poo in your pants—Sweetheart, you had diarrhea and you are sitting all in poo. We need to change your diaper”  was just a figment of my imagination, but alas it was not. This was confirmed to me by my mother who witnessed, first-hand, the entire Poo-mergency 5 feet from us while I snored away.)

Finally, around two something in the morning, a salt-and-pepper haired Dr. with rosy red cheeks came bursting into the room, flicking the lights on with zero regard for my splitting headache.


“Hi, I’m Dr. Blah-blah,” he introduced himself. “Chest X-ray was fine. Blood levels fine. Positive for bacterial bronchitis, so we’ll start you on a Z-pack. And obviously an underlying virus causing the fever. Fluids and rest. Take care!”



It really was that fast. My head was spinning, and I lay there confused since I hadn’t even fully awoken from the warm-blanket coma that I had so been enjoying.   

Wow, I said to my mom. And that’s why he makes the beaucoup bucks?!  She tiredly agreed.



At least the nurse who discharged me spent more than 13 seconds with me, explaining the course of my pills, and asked if I had any questions. After I signed all necessary paperwork, I unwillingly peeled myself out from under the heated blanket cocoon that I had made for myself, stripped off the Johnnie, and put my own clothes on to head home.


AND SO….early Monday morning, around 3:15, my Mom dropped me back off at home and I crawled back into my own bed, where I’ve remained since.  I do feel like the Z-pack (*might*) be starting to  work, although I say this very cautiously so these words won’t come back to bite me in the butt.

Ava’s cough remains but her fever has disappeared with the rest of her other symptoms.  Gav is definitely taking a bit longer to get better, presumably because he is so little and just doesn’t know how to help himself heal the way she does. My poor little buddy. It is so sad to see him this sick, at only 7 months old.  Both are still on regular nebulizer treatments and antibiotics, but God willing, and end is in sight.


 And then there is my Jeff…. my incredible knight in shining Clorox wipes.  Remarkably, he hasn’t been contaminated with this yuckiness and we remain hopeful that by some miraculous measure, he has escaped it altogether.  He has held down this fort all by himself  in a way I never thought humanly possible and I am so proud, so lucky, so honored for this.  It certainly isn’t a small feat to be the sole caretaker of three sick individuals, all with different needs, for days on end. He's balanced medicine dosages like a champ and has made sure that each of us has had food in our bellies and lots of fluids to drink.  He is sleep-deprived and beyond depleted physically, but he’ll never show me this.  It’s times like these that the whole ‘in sickness and health…’ thing really makes a difference.  I could never have asked for a better life partner and am so privileged that our little family has him as our rock in difficult times.


And as for me? Well, I’ve spent the past few days in bed catching up on a gluttonous amount of Teen Mom, Let’s Talk About Pep, and The Buried Life.  (the latter of which is actually completely inspirational and touching, by the way.) I have seen approximately 7,296 ads for the New and Improved Pro-Activ Acne solution  as well as the second generation Swivel Sweeper G2. I’ve also learned that MTV does in fact still air music videos, but only between the hours of two and six am.  I’ve been surviving on Ginger Ale, Robitussin with Codeine and Riiiiiii-colaaaaaaaa lozenges.  My fever is finally down a little bit today and my biggest complaints at the moment are an incredibly sore back from all of the coughing, and this ever-present pounding headache.  Improvement- baby steps, but improvement.



Our neighbor Laura is bringing us dinner tonight because she is an absolute Saint!!!  And I am happy to report that Ava will be having something other than PB & J for dinner tonight. (this is not me judging, by the way- Jeff obviously had his hands way full and as long as she was eating anything, I was happy.)
Hopefully everyone is on the road to recovery and I’m praying that in the day or two ahead, things will slowly start to settle back into some resemblance of normalcy.

Oh, and by the way? Please click here for a brief reminder as to why last week's medicine situation ain't got nothin' on this week's.  Psshht.

Valentine's Day weekend (1 of 2)

How was my Valentine's Day weekend, you may be wondering?
Spent under a warm blanket holding the hand of an adorable male nurse named "Josh," and lifting up my boobs for him.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves... here's the story from the beginning.

My last entry was Thursday, in reference to the fact that my infant son and four-year old daughter were now both sick.  Ughh.  I was running on fumes, especially coming off the heels of a full week of sleepless nights, spent running from one bedroom to the next, giving amoxicillin doses, Z-packs, Benadryl, albuterol nebulizer treatments, and oral steroids until the wee hours of the morning.  By Friday, everyone in this house was exhausted and frustrated, given that neither of the kiddos seemed to be getting better with the medicines.  We all wanted to cry.  Everything culminated early on Saturday morning with yet another trip to the emergency walk-in clinic and a diagnosis that Ava had an ear infection too.  Fantastic.  So at this point, the score was as follows:

Aves:  RAD, random fever-inducing virus, bronchial infection, horrific wheezing cough, fluid-filled lungs, and now ear infection to boot.


Gav: same fever-related virus, identical cough (except that he's too little to know how to cope by spitting out the mucous, and was so sad,  :-(   fluid-filled lungs, and ear infection as well.

Pretty much a tie, if you ask me.

When I woke up that Saturday morning, I was starting to feel "a little off" and so Jeff took them to this appointment alone, in very high hopes that whatever I might be coming down with would resemble nothing like the monstrosity that had infected our children.  Unfortunately for our little family unit...this would not be the case.  By the time Jeff got home with the kids around noon, I was huddled in the living room recliner under three blankets shivering and sweating simultaneously.  My head was pounding, my ears were becoming clogged, and -- Oh dear God-- THE COUGH. Jeff, being the eternal optimist, made me some loose-leaf white tea and told me to drink it. "I'm sure it's just because you're run down...just take it easy today and you'll be fine tomorrow!"

Silly husband- wishful, wishful thinking.

By seven that night, everything was a haze and I could feel my fever spiking; (a kids' ear thermometer confirmed this with a 101.7 reading, which I was glad to see since I was expecting something much higher.)  Jeff brought me motrin and tylenol which I took, and then remained in the recliner, where I had spent the entirety of my day curled up in a pathetic, lifeless ball.  In the foggy distance, I could hear the kids in the bath, Jeff arguing with Ava to do yet another nebbie, and the baby coughing and crying. I wanted to help but I couldn't even muster enough physical strength to stand up.  I was useless.

Eight o'clock, and the kids are finally in bed. I hear Jeff in the kitchen making a sad phonecall: "Hi, I had a Valentine's dinner reservation for tonight-yes, nine pm-- under Jeff. Yeah, I need to cancel that. My wife is sick. Ok, thanks. You too, bye."  As sick as I am, my heart sinks in the realization that we have officially missed our (ONLY) big night out in several months. And if I wasn't so dehydrated, I probably would have shed a tear about it.

Ten p.m. and things are going downhill fast.  I am hallucinating that the oscillating fan in the living room is making me cold (*we do not own an oscillating fan) and beg Jeff to turn it off.  All this while watching Apollo something or other skate in some sort of big-shot skating competition on the 46-inch plasma in front of me.  Man, he must be cold, I think to myself as I watch him on the shiny ice, and I shiver with more chills.  Jeff takes my temp again: 103 point something. Not good considering I've been taking tylenol and motrin religiously all day long. My cough is out of control and I am expelling yucky, thick phlegm. It's not pretty.

Jeff's OCD must kick into high gear at this point and he decides that I must now be quarantined in my bedroom.  At the pace of a snail in a wheelchair, I stand up from the recliner.  Every joint in my body throbs with pain and my eyes pound.  Jeff leads me down the hallway and gets me into bed. As I am drifting off into a fever-induced sleep, I hear him in the living room ferociously Lysol-ing, clorox-ing, and opening windows to give him a fighting chance of not catching this.  (And for the first time in my life, I find these OCD rituals to be completely warranted.)

I do manage to fall into some resemblance of sleep despite the hot-cold-hot-cold-hot episodes that my body is experiencing, during which point I have a very realistic dream that we are at my parents' house in Maine, and I have turned into a maniacal Frosty the snowman, chasing Jeff around the cottage with my magical neon broomstick.  Sidenote: there are only two times in my life during when I tend to have very bizarre and vivid dreams: sickness and pregnancy. (and the answer is NO to the latter, in case you were wondering.)  Throughout the night, I repeatedly hear poor Gav coughing and crying in his bedroom next door, and wish there was any way that I could help Jeff...especially around 2am when Ave wakes up coughing herself into a vomit frenzy, and Gav wakes up screaming and coughing and gagging at the exact same time.  By some miraculous measure though, my warrior of a husband does in fact survive the night, and so do the kiddos. I can honestly say that I've never felt more helpless for my family, or more empathetic for my children- especially since I now know first-hand exactly what kind of pain and suffering this Flu-mageddon  thingy has done to their tiny bodies.  In and out of consciousness, this is what pains me the most for the remainder of the day as I lay in bed, still quarantined. My poor, poor babies  :-(


Sunday morning comes and I am now experiencing a constant ringing in my left ear and nausea beyond belief.  My cough worsens, my phlegm is more abundant, and any hint of light in my bedroom is like daggers to my eyes.  I haven't eaten in 2 days, since the thought of food makes me sick to my stomach.  I've endured 2 full-blown nosebleeds due to the dryness in our house and the massive amount of nose-blowing that has ensued in the past 3 days.  Sunday afternoon, my mom comes over to help out for a bit and give Jeff somewhat of a break. She holds Gav on the couch, who is still so sick that he has no interest in doing anything but nestling up with Nana and sleeping on her shoulder. My poor, sad little buddy. :-(


That evening, around six o'clock, I am beginning to wheeze tremendously with my coughing fits and am having sharp pains in my chest, which scares me a little bit.  Still quarantined in  my bedroom, I take my own temperature but can't even open my eyes enough to read the results after it beeps.  With the little voice that I still have, I hoarsely call Jefffffff?   and have to do this a few times before he hears me and comes running to the rescue.  I ask him to read the thermometer:  One-oh-four point two.

Yikes, this isn't good. Especially since I just took motrin and tylenol an hour ago. And the shooting pains in my chest....

We decide to call the on-call Dr. from my practice, who is alarmed by my fever and the fact that it seems non-responsive to medicine.

"I know it's probably the last thing you want to hear on Valentine's Day," he states, "but you need to get to the ER immediately, you could very well have a bacterial pneumonia."

Valentine's day? I think to myself. I had completely forgotten that today was in fact February 14th.

Jeff calls my mom and makes arrangements for her to take me to the hospital, since the kiddos are both still sick & waking up at night, and his priority needs to be at home for them.  Jayne speeds over to our house and I feel like I am walking in a Jello mold as I saunter down the hall, out the door, and into her car.  I begin shivering immediately and the movement of the car makes my nausea worse, so I just close my eyes and pray to God that I make it to the ER without hurling...

How NOT to win 'Mom of the Year" award:

You know it's been a bad week when:

Yup, that's right folks...2 kiddos, 2 bottles of amoxicillin. Let me back up a little bit and fill you in on how we reached this point.

Ava's been sick all week...the cough, the gagging, the vomiting, the wheezing, the breathing treatments, and so on. She's been so sick, so needy, that this little guy

got inadvertently put on the back burner. And by "back burner," I just mean that my mind wasn't open to the possibility that he wasn't feeling good either after a few whiny days & rough nights. (I should also mention that he's been more whiny lately because of his bottom teeth popping through, so I have been quick to attribute any changes in his temprament to this.) It actually wasn't until last night- when he slept MAYBE 2 hours all night long, and screamed/cried the rest-- that I began to wonder if some other culprit could be to blame. But since he's never, ever had a sleepless night of this caliber, I kept positive and just assumed that it was one of two things: 1) a fluke, sleepless night (hey, after 7 months of sleeping perfection, he's entitled to a night off!) or 2). maybe he'd finally caught the cold that his big sister's been fighting, and he just wasn't feeling great because of it.

Well... fast forward to this morning:

Six am, and I am running on less than fumes, if that is possible. Between Aves & Gav, Jeff & I have been up all night and neither of us can see straight. Jeff leaves for work, and I am left in a haze with a sad, sicky girl and a questionably "not feeling so hot" baby boy. The three of us hang out, eat some breakfast, and by 11 in the morning, Gav is beyond exhausted. "Good," I think, "He'll finally sleep, since he didn't sleep at ALL last night and has been up since five AM!"
So into his room we go, just the two of us and his nice warm bubby. I pull the shades like I do every day before his nap. His diaper is dry, his jammies are cozy, and after about ten minutes, his bottle is empty and his belly is full or yummy, warm milk. He should be ready to go down at this point, but given that he's not feeling great, I indulge him (and myself) in an extra fifteen minutes of rocking together in the glider. Once he is fast asleep- as evident by the fly-catching, wide-open mouth that is drooling on my shoulder as he snores-- I perform the ritualistic saunter up from the glider and walk across the room to his crib, moving at the pace of an elderly sloth, as not to wake him. I even rock him in my arms for another few minutes before attempting "the release."
And that's when it happened; as I leaned my body over the crib to place him down, the MOMENT he transferred from the (somewhat) vertical position in which I was holding him to the horizontal, laying down position in the crib, he screamed.
SCREAMED louder than I've ever heard from his little voice in 7 months now. A painful, sad scream, and immediate eyes wide open.
And I knew it in that second, as I scooped him up to snuggle him again: Ear infection.
There was no doubt in my mind, (especially after living through years of them with Ava,) that this is what we were dealing with here. As he whimpered there in my arms, tears rolling off his little cheeks as he attempted to get comfy again, I immediately felt like the biggest jerk that has ever existed. My heart ached and my eyes started to well up with the warm, salty tears of maternal failure. I had failed him, plain and simple. At just 7 months old he'd been giving me signs all week, and I was too consumed with Ava's medical needs that I never even noticed. And so, similar to the last five minutes of The Usual Suspects, bits & pieces of the past few days of Gav's life began to flash before my eyes, and it all came together. The fact that he started with cold-like symptoms of runny nose & sneezing that never ceased; the fact that he's been banging/tugging on and around his left ear for a few days now; the fact that, despite him being a phenomenal sleeper, he didn't sleep at ALL last night; and perhaps the most tell-tale sign of all, today's screaming upon trying to lay him flat.
Ughhh. What a bad, bad Mommy I suddenly felt like. What kind of Mom doesn't know her own baby has his FIRST ear infection!? Apparently, this kind.
I felt bad for Gav that I'd been inadvertently neglectful of his needs to tend to Ave's all week long...and as I rocked there with him in his room for another hour, I felt tremendous guilt that I told Ava over an hour ago that I'd be "....right back out to watch a Barbie movie (with her) in just a few minutes, after I put Gav down for his nappy..." 


Ultimately, I suppose today was a good reminder that I am only human, and despite my fervent attempts at being 110% there for both kiddos at ALL times, it comes down to simple math: One of me, two of them. Therefore, inevitably situations will arise when one child is going to need more- time, attention, resources, etc... And by default, the other will lack because of it. I just feel so sad that poor Gav had to deal with a throbbing, painful ear to teach me this lesson. In the meantime, all I can do is try harder at this whole dividing my time and energy thing, and hope that I get better with time and practice. (Oh, and maybe contemplate relocating to a warmer climate where sickness & ear infections are a rarity... that too.)

In conclusion, as I sit here typing this, my dark, quiet, candle-lit household now claims 2 sick kiddos and 2 beyond exhausted parents.  My fridge and medicine cabinet could easily rival any Rite-Aid or Target pharmacy at this point.  From the baby monitor, we hear sporadic bouts of 2 kiddos snoring, both coughing juicy coughs, and sniffling here and there. Gav, whose first dose of antibiotic hasn't kicked in yet, is fast asleep in his car-seat since laying flat is still too painful for his poor little eardrum. And Aves, snuggled in her bed, (still with the infamous blue bucket at her side just in case tonight's 3am coughing fit results in projectile vomit again,) is most likely dreaming about the Valentine's day party at school tomorrow that she may or may not attend, depending on how she's doing in the morning. To say that this week has been a "bad one" could possibly be the understatement of the decade...but with 2 kids finally on appropriate meds and tomorrow being Friday, I'd say things (BETTER!) start looking up soon.

Home sick, day 3...

"This is getting old, Mom..."

(Please note the rosy, pink cheeks-- thank you steroids for that nice little side effect.)

My poor baby- I just want to wrap her up in my arms, take all of this ridiculous pain away, and let her get on with her fun, happy existence. But on the upside, I am very proud of what a good girl she's been, given the crappy circumstances of her week....she's taking her meds, doing her breathing treatments, and staying remarkably upbeat. She keeps telling me,

"Momma, as long as I can go to my Valentine's party on Friday, everything will be ok..."

Yikes....come on Augmentin, don't let that little face down now!

Things I never wanted to be an expert on:

Oral steroids.

Albuterol.

Pulmicort.

Prednisolone.

Orapred.

20-day Augmentin regimens.

Nebulizers, 

        inhalers, 

             breathing treatments.

RAD (Reactive Airway Disease) with URD (Upper Respiratory Distress)

Asthma.

Sinus infections/recurrent bronchitis/pneumonia/upper respiratory infections.

Coughing/wheezing.

I feel like my poor little girl is turning into a pharmacy.  With no improvement since Monday's visit to MGH (to see the Pediatric Pulmonologist,)  we spoke with him again today and learned a few things:

 1. She definitely, absolutely has "Reactive Airway Disease." (clearly, I just spent about 45 minutes googling this to familiarize myself with the new diagnosis).  Not fun stuff.

 2. She is never going to be the kind of child that "just gets a cold." For whatever reason, the moment a cold begins to develop in her, it immediately moves beneath her vocal chords (apparently this is the distinguishing line between "cold" and " lung/bronchial infections...colds occur above vocal chords and never move below them, bronchial infections are below....) and ferociously infects her bronchial tubes & lungs, resulting in pneumonia, bronchitis, tremendous coughing, wheezing, and thick mucous. This may or may not result in a long-term asthma diagnosis; we are in 'wait-and-see' mode as far as that goes.

3. Oral steroids apparently do nothing for her, since we are now on day #3 with ZERO improvement; (Negative improvement, actually, if you take into consideration that she's actually gotten worse.) Therefore, we are back to a 10 to 20-day Augmentin regimen to see if it was an underlying lung infection causing all of this, and hoping that the antibiotic does the trick. Please, augmentin, do the trick!


 Here's to hoping (PRAYING) that this medicine works, and that my poor little girly can get some much-needed rest from the coughing/wheezing/gagging/vomiting that has ensued for the past several days here... I honestly can't even stand to watch and listen to her struggle so much anymore, especially since there is nothing I can offer her in the way of relief.   All I can give to her at the moment is a warm lap, a big hug, and a rub of her back- things that certainly don't remedy the pain and discomfort she's experiencing.  In her four-year old little world, she just wants to feel better, and her Momma can't fix it for her.  And that just sucks. Unequivocally, this is the hardest, saddest part about being a mommy  :-(

In related news, I am absolutely terrified of the utter heartbreak that will occur if she's not better by Friday and learns that she has to miss her first ever, highly anticipated, much talked about Preschool Valentine's party-- complete with cookies, cupcakes, and of course the obligatory swapping of adorable, handwritten Valentines among friends. Oh, and the Valentine's outfit (complete with oodles of glittery, heart-shaped bling)  that she picked out last week just for the occasion. Ugh...I can almost taste the sad, salty tears on her cheeks already...

PLEASE Augmentin, I'm begging you here-- show us a miracle. Preferably by Friday, thanks.

Fingers crossed...

Just another Manic Monday

 I double-dog dare you to read the following account of my day so far and say that your Monday morning was worse than mine...

1. Seven AM, alarm clock goes off. Hard time getting up. And by "hard" I really mean "completely impossbile." Jeff has to repeatedly pry covers from my kung-fu grip and physically force me into the shower today. (have I mentioned that I am beyond exhausted & sleep-deprived lately?)

2. Get out of shower, and miraculously I'm feeling much better!  Completely refreshed & almost as enthusiastic as the post-shower actors from the mid-eighties Zestfully clean commercials.  And as an added bonus, no sore throat today! (I had a bad cold all last week and woke up with my throat on fire most days.)  Brush my teeth, gargle, floss. Fantasize about actually wearing something other than a member of the yoga/sweat pant family today-- maybe even (gasp) - a pair of jeans and a sweater?? Feeling like a (half) a million bucks...  Hey, things are looking up!

3. Saunter into living room post-shower (with a kid-size towel clinging to my body for dear life, since I accidentally grabbed one of Ava's) where Jeff is sitting with the kiddos, and am about to express how good I am feeling today... when Ava begins coughing, gagging, eyes watering- Oh, dear God, I know what this means...  And before I have time to react, it comes.  The vomit. Profuse vomit. Apple-juice & last-night's hamburger vomit. More gagging, dry-heaving, tears-in-her-eyes, Momma, please help me vomit. And more juicy, phlegm-y coughs. And vomit. And coughs, coughs, coughs.

4. Immediately drop too-small towel from my torso to the floor in hopes that the rest of said vomit makes it onto that instead of rug, floors, etc...  and gently begin to rub her back & tie her hair in a ponytail for her while the rest of the vomiting ensues. (Am suddenly brought back to my college drinking days, and realize that I've assumed this same back-rubbing, hair-holding position for many a drunk buddy on the floor of toilet stall in sketchy fraternity bathroom...)

5.  Strip Ava out of her soggy, yucky nightgown and now the both of us are standing in the living room naked, in a pile of phlegm-y vomit.  Realize at this exact moment that living room shades are up and that sketchy old guy (who resembles the long-lost twin brother of the Gordon's fisherman ) is walking his heinous Italian greyhound right by our window. I duck immediately, stepping in slippery pool of vomit.

6. Hobble down the hallway with wet, vomit-y foot, change Ava into new nightgown, and throw some sweatpants & a tank-top on myself (there goes exciting clothing fantasy expressed in #2 above), and set Aves up on the comfy recliner with the only things that are going to help us through this day: a Nick Jr. Dora marathon, her gock, and the infamous blue vomit bucket.

(honestly, have you ever seen anything sadder than this?)  

:-(

7. Call school to inform them she will not be attending, and then call Mass General to make appt. with her Pediatric Pulminologist who wanted to see her back immediately in the event that she produced a phlegm-y, juicy, vomit-inducing cough again this soon. (we were just there 5 weeks ago).

8. Awesome receptionist, who can hear Ava's juicy cough/wheezing/gagging in the background as we are speaking, agrees to double-book the Dr. to fit her in. Thank you GOD, because I know tonight isn't going to be pretty unless we start her on something soon...

9. Jeff leaves for work. No sooner do I hear his car pull out of the driveway when Gav decides to spit up ALL OVER me as I am holding him. A wonderful medley of warm, chunky formula (which, for those of you non-parents out there, is not a pleasant aroma), pureed bananas, and Gerber strawberry puffs.  Into my hair (which happens not to be pulled back in a ponytail at this exact moment since I took it out to tie Ave's hair back during 8am vom-fest), all down my neck, and even mysteriously creeping down the front of me & into my cleavage. Sexy, I know.

10.  Put Gav in his crib so that I can strip my clothing and change myself  into (wait for it...) JAMMIES!  My 4-minute long dream of dressing in something other than sweats/jammies today is squashed. Sorry, jeans...looks like another cold, lonely day in the closet for you.

11. Sit on couch in jammies for 10 minutes of "me" time to type this entry... And in this time, Gav (who has remained mysteriously quiet in his Exersaucer for the duration of this, less a few grunting noises),  has managed to accomplish a MASSIVE poop in his diaper (I can smell it from here), and Ava continues to cough juicy coughs, grabbing onto her "throw-up bucket" each time in fear that she might vomit again.


In conclusion, allow me to paint you a picture of my current circumstance:  I  smell like eau de sour milk (can't buy that one at Sephora), I am wearing over-sized jammies from my maternity days, and my house reeks of poopy diaper.  Please tell me that 10:43am on a Monday isn't an inappropriate hour to dive into a box of wine to help me survive the next several hours of: