On Being an Adult

We've had a pretty rough few days chez Lilahbility.  Lilah brought a little something extra home from daycare the other day, and it turned out to be hand, foot, and mouth disease.  A couple days of fever followed by a blistery rash on the hands and feet and in and around the mouth.  While it is never fun to have a  sick child on one's hands, I have to say (without hyperbole) that Thursday was one of the most difficult days in my two-year parenting career so far.  I'm talking challenging and intense in the same way the newborn days are, and it followed a near-sleepless night, so it felt all too similar.

It is occasions like these (and sometimes random occasions as well) when I can hardly believe that I am really an adult; that I am old enough and responsible enough to be in charge of another person, let alone a small child who is ill and relying on me for her every need.  In my mind, I am still 18, just barely an adult.

But somehow I was trusted with the responsibility of taking my prenatal vitamins, growing a small human inside of me, getting her out safely (with a little help, obviously), nourishing her, nurturing her, keeping her warm and safe, and providing her with opportunities to learn and grow. 

And now here I am; the parent, the one in charge, trying to pacify a cranky toddler with a nasty virus and failing miserably.  And just for a moment, that sneaky "How did I get here?" feeling creeps up, bringing with it the self-doubt, the feeling that I might not be able to handle this, that maybe someone else would do a much better job, be more patient, hold it together better.

But the truth is, we got through it.  We always get through it.  And I helped get her through it.  I administered medications, fed her, made sure she drank enough fluids, rocked her, read to her, and restrained myself from strangling her when she sent her bowl of applesauce sailing past my head.  Because I'm her mom, and that's what moms do.


Oh yeah, forgot to mention - I also let her have a creamsicle in the bath.
And the bruise on her forehead?  I did NOT cause that.
In one of her illness-induced rages, she slipped and banged her head on a sharp corner.
Talk about adding insult to injury!



Still, when Lilah has woken for the fifth time in one night screaming, "I WANT MY MOMMY!!!" at top of her lungs, I will admit to sometimes thinking, "You and me both, kid, you and me both."

Pusher

Lilah has been sick a lot this year.  Apparently a child's first year of daycare can do that.  There have been countless colds, several bouts of barfiness, and about eleventy million fevers. And that means a whole arsenal of pediatric drugs.  It's not that I love the idea of giving my child over-the-counter medicines, and I do try to avoid it where possible, but the fevers tend to make it a necessity.

And I have become an expert at getting her to take this medicine.  Even in her sleep.  Especially in her sleep.  I tiptoe silently across her room, grope blindly for her mouth, pry her lips apart, slip the syringe in, and push the plunger, delivering 8 hours' worth of sweet Advil peace to her feverish little body.  She has thus far retained the ability to suck in her sleep that infants are so famous for.  I wonder how much longer I have before she starts jolting awake during my attempts to drug her...?

Poor thing doesn't even know what hit her!

Barfy McPukerson

I have no idea how this happened, but it appears that I have somehow gave birth to a puker.  I, who can't even remember the last time I threw up, though I suspect it was alcohol-induced.  (Okay, typing that just triggered a flash-back.  It was my bachelorette party in 2007.)


I blame the Hubs, and his faulty, weak-stomached genes.  The guy can pretty much barf on command.  Which can be handy when you've had too much to drink and you know it's inevitable, but not so fantastic when you'd really like to avoid tasting that three bean salad or ill-advised breakfast burrito again.



Mommy, I don't feel so good!

You may recall the stomach bug I described last June?  Oh, and let's not forget the epic two-week long pukefest in December.  Well, now we have a new notch in our barfy belt.  The Hubs spent a recent Saturday night running from the bed to the bathroom, so I wasn't terribly surprised when Lilah followed suit the next morning and started ralphing all over our apartment.  No biggie, I thought, we've done this before.  It sucked, but this one appeared to be short-lived.  The Hubs was fine by breakfast time, and Lilah appeared to be all better by dinner.  And she was fine for a full 48 hours, but then randomly yakked all over the Hubs as he was putting her to bed on the following Tuesday night.  This follows the pattern from the past few illnesses too.  Sick as a dog for the standard length of time, then fine for two or three days, and then barfy again.  What gives?

Does your kid ever recover from a stomach bug only to relapse a few days later?  I'd love to know whether this is normal or something we should add to the list of what makes our li'l Lilahbility unique and special, and well, a bit of a liability!

Survival

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?)