I've been MIA for a while. I've had my reasons. I feel as though I've been through a battle of epic proportions. And lived to blog about it (but just barely).
It all started Tuesday night with an episode of projectile vomiting (the vomiter being Lilah and the recipients being me, the high chair, the floor, the wall, the table....). I didn't realize her little tummy could possibly hold so much liquid. The Hubs and I divided and conquered - he quickly whisked Lilah away and deposited her directly into the bath while I dealt with the aftermath around her high chair. I was impressed with our efficiency and teamwork. When she made it through Tuesday night without further spewage, I figured we were in the clear.
Wednesday was spent dosing out Tylenol and trying to appease an extremely fussy and feverish baby. The only things she wanted to do that day were cuddle with me and sleep. And if you know anything about Lilah, you will know this is truly a departure from her usual personality. Normally I'm all, "Can I have a cuddle?" and she's all, "Let go of me, woman! Don't you know I have more important things to do than snuggling with you? If you wanted to feel loved and needed, you should have gotten a dog!" But on Wednesday she just wanted to curl up in my arms, suck her thumb, and play with (ie. pull out, a few painful strands at a time) my hair. Which would have been lovely, had I not needed to run to the bathroom every 15 minutes myself. I was "lucky" in that my stomach contents followed the "exit this way" sign, but still, not an enjoyable experience. TMI? Oh sorry, I thought nothing was off limits between me and my best friend, the internet.
I managed not to call the Hubs and ask him to come home early from work that day, but it was touch-and-go for a while there. Normally in this type of situation I wouldn't have any qualms about requesting (demanding!) that he come home and help me out, but he was leaving town the next day and needed to get things wrapped up at work. So Lilah and I hunkered down and survived. Turns out that's all we did for the next four days - just survive.
On Thursday morning, bright and early, the Hubs left for his friend's bachelor party in Vegas and Lilah and I seemed to be getting better, but on Friday night, unbeknowst to me, there was another puking episode. Lilah had already gone to bed by that point and somehow managed to throw up in her crib and then go right back to sleep. Seriously, this kid has gone from a crappy sleeper to a sleeping champion! Remember the toothbrush incident and how badly I felt about that? Multiply that by about a million! Nothing feeds that little voice in the back of your head saying, "You're a crap mother" like your child sleeping in a puddle of their own vomit all night. (Ummmm... and I probably shouldn't have let the kid eat that little piece of pesto pizza our neighbour was offering up, either. Oh, and those blueberries at dinner time? Also not a good idea. But she seemed to be feeling so much better!)
*Coincidentally, I suspect the Hubs and his friends (particularly the groom-to-be) may also have been sleeping in pools of their own vomit, but in their case it was self-inflicted, so they get no sympathy. But since we're on the topic of alcohol-induced vomiting, you should check out this Stomach Party bit by comedian Jim Breuer. It's one of my all-time faves.*
Saturday morning: more puking. Saturday afternoon and evening: managed to keep breastmilk and water down. I mistakenly thought this was the last of it. Sunday morning: more puking. She was walking around when the barfing started, so the poor kid slipped backwards in her own barf and banged her head. A true comedy of errors. Maybe someday I will be able to laugh about that, but at the moment the thought of it breaks my heart.
Oh, and as if I wasn't getting bitch-slapped enough in the cleaning-up-puke department? I also discovered several patches of cat puke scattered about the house at random intervals throughout the weekend. "Awesome" doesn't even begin to cover it.
A visit to the walk-in clinic on Sunday morning was totally unenlightening and yet oddly reassuring - I hadn't missed anything, this was a tummy bug and it would pass. The fever was gone and she wasn't dehydrated (as evidenced by the heart-wrenching tears shed on the doctor's table). No mass in the belly. Just a sucky little sicky. Exactly as I suspected, but good to hear it from someone with an actual medical degree.
It's now Monday morning and things appear to be getting better. Still sucky, still tired, but 24 vomit-free hours have passed, and the Hubs is home from Vegas. Right now, I feel like I do after conquering the Grouse Grind: it sucked, but now that it's over, I feel proud of myself for surviving and a more than a little virtuous.
And Hubs? You owe me. Big time!
(What's that, feet? You need a massage? I'm sure the Hubs would be happy to oblige while I watch The Bachelorette or some other ridiculous drivel on TV and eat this giant tub of ice cream. Wouldn't you honey?)