I am on a journey this week. Not a fun journey. Not a journey filled with smiles and laughs and the warm sun on my skin. No, not a journey like that. It's more vomit-covered, quietly crying, guilt-ridden, a little bitchy and the cold AC driving me insane. It's that kind of journey.
Let's start at the top of that list: vomit-covered. RB is sick for the first time this week. I mean, he's had a cold, and he's had a cough, and he's had a fever before. This week is different. He has an ear infection and he is also conveniently teething five (5!!!) teeth at one time. He has been sick from all ends. He has been very upset from all ends. He has covered me in hot vomit three times. He has thrown up in his sleep, slept through it, and then been accosted by his mother in the dark while I change him and his bedding. He has had to take medicine that he would give two chubby thumbs down if anyone asked him. I am obsessing over his hydration levels. I am worried about how much he's not eating. You see, our guy is an eater. You don't get to be 20lbs by 6 months old eating like a fragile little bird. No, you get to be that big by being committed to your art, and in this case, RB's art is his food.
It started Monday afternoon. We had a lovely, long Memorial Day weekend. We'd been for a walk; we'd been in the pool; he'd been napping so beautifully. Monday afternoon rolled around and I dared to let myself feel confident. I felt like I had a fucking handle on this shit! What an idiot. Honestly. What a total dumbass. I was with RB in his room; I'd just changed him and picked him up. Suddenly, out of nowhere (literally, I did not see it coming at all) I go from totally fine to covered in hot baby vomit in the blink of an eye. For a split second, we stared at each other in total shock. Then RB realized what had happened; the entirety of his stomach contents had emptied itself forcefully through his mouth and nose, and he was stinky and hungry and angry and uncomfortable and honestly just pissed off. It was on me, him, the walls, the floor, and would've been on the dog if he hadn't recently vacated the room we were in. Maybe he saw it coming and left me to fend for myself.
You see, RB has never thrown up before. He has spit up, sure - but he has never actually expelled all of the liquid in his body out onto mine. Well, he hadn't done it before this moment. It scared the absolute hell out of me. I don't really how to describe why it did though. It was shocking. It was a LOT of stuff to come out of such a little body. He was SO upset by what had happened. I was upset too. I immediately started racking my brain on what I could've done to cause this. Sometimes I wonder if I'm a narcissist because that's where my mind goes - what did I do to earn this poor result? The way I am built, I always assume if something bad happens, it is my fault. Super healthy coping mechanism, I know.
I cleaned us up and I tried to keep my shit together. I called my parents and my mother-in-law and no one was available. I called the doctor and they said it was just once; they said to resume his regular feeding schedule and he was fine. I knew he had something else going on. My parents and my MIL called me back. Everyone said kids vomit, it's fine! Just watch his hydration level. Over the next 12 hours, he slept like shit. He was fussy. He threw up in his sleep. He wasn't as hungry, and I wasn't pleased with the amount of pee coming out of this kid. (I probably sound insane to anyone who isn't a parent, talking about tracking his urine levels. If you know, you know. If you don't, whatever - I am too tired to care).
The next morning, we made the call that he needed to go to the doctor. We went and, after an hour of waiting, we finally saw someone. The doctor walked in, took one look in his ears, and said "Oh, yeah, he has an ear infection." She then looked at his throat, and said "Woah! he's also growing five teeth right now. Bubba is going through it". You're damn right, Mrs. Doctor. Bubba was going through it. She prescribed us amoxicillin for the infection and something to settle his tummy. I prayed, God, please let the hot lava flow of throw-up end.
Three hours, multiple calls to the pharmacy, and two pharmacy visits later, I had my hands on this beautiful thing that is Western medicine. At one point on the phone with the pharmacy tech, who originally told me it would be an hour for them to fill his prescription, I laid it out for him what exactly was happening in my home. If I recall correctly, it went like this, "Hey, man. I'm trying to be cool here, but you said it'd be an hour. It's now been three hours. I have a sick six-month-old on my hands. He is pissed and he is not loving this experience. Do you know whose problem that is? Mine. Do you know what would really help? Medicine. I need you to do whatever it is you need to do to get me this medicine within the hour. I'm trying to be cool, I really am, but I am slipping. I'd appreciate your help here." After an awkward "..um, okay" and another 45 minutes, I got a call that his prescription was ready for pick up. We went on our second and final field trip to the store, got it, and came home. I gave him his medicine and it was honestly fairly reminiscent of WWE. It was like wrestling two pigs fighting under a blanket. How much resistance is too much resistance? He's so strong, so wiry. After a lot of screaming and tears (his and mine, obviously), we got the medicine in.
I started writing this Wednesday, about 24 hours after he had been on his medicine. He had shown some improvement pretty quickly, but he was still so sleepy and unenthused about his general existence. It was so sad. He stayed home with us on Tuesday, which was an entire experience in and of itself. He managed to throw up all over me, him, and my office, which was a super cool, super great time. He didn't do this just because his body randomly decided to expel its contents. No, no, no. He did this because I was concerned about his hydration levels, so I tried to get some Pedialyte in him. Turns out he thinks that shit is absolutely, offensively disgusting, and I should pay for my mistake. And I did. I mean, it was a hose-off situation, as in we had to be hosed off, and my office had to be scrubbed. My computer escaped certain death by a mere two inches. But we got through it.
Cut to right now, almost 48 hours later, and he is so clearly feeling so much better. He had some smiles for us this morning. He slept like a rock. He is eating a lot better - though not as much as he normally does, but it's only been two days on medicine. He did some screeching and a little bit of jumping in his bouncer this morning. He's getting there, and we are so thankful for it.
Side note: Tuesday night, Hap was in a weird mood, too. He didn't want to sleep alone. Beau was up with him until 11, and then he went to bed. At midnight, he barked for one of us to get up. Normally this means there is a bathroom situation that needs dealing with imminently. Not this night. I got up, let him out, and he tried to play with me (play?! Oh I was irked). I went back to bed, and then he called for me again fifteen minutes later. I gave him a full twenty minutes outside at this point to take care of what he needed to take care of. We rinsed and repeated until two in the morning, at which point I gave up and slept on the couch. That seemed to be just what he was looking for because he slept like an angel after that. I bring this up because this is a big reason as to why I was an extra spicy insane person on Wednesday when I started writing this.
Let's cut to the second point in my intro: quietly crying. Y'all, when I tell you I have felt like a certifiable basket case the last few days, I am not exaggerating. My parents and my husband could tell you that I am fairly dramatic in my description of things. You might read that and think "Oh, Grace! You're being silly. A basket-case? Nonsense!" If you thought this, you would be sorely mistaken. All I have wanted to do is cry. Cry because I am so fucking worried. Cry because I am exhausted. Cry because he's not peeing as he should. Cry because he's not eating like normal. Cry because he's crying. Cry because he's not crying. Cry because I needed to shower and didn't have time. Cry because the world decided it would just continue turning and my responsibilities just kept requiring me to be responsible. I've allowed myself to shed some tears every now and then just when I feel I can't hold it back any longer, but there have been points where I feel like the damn Hoover Dam and I can't keep it in. Pretty sure the stress and the lack of sleep were key factors here. I haven't felt like crying in the last twelve hours so I would say I am on the up and up.
Moving right along to our next stop: guilt-ridden. I feel like a fucking failure. An ear infection? How did I not see it? Sure, he showed no signs, no ear tugging, no fever prior to the vomit comet, and he was his normal happy self up until we were in the thick of it. Shouldn't I have some intrinsic ability to sense this shit? You can't hear my tone, but I was being both very sincere and also completely facetious. The expectations I put on myself are astounding and impossible. My head knows this. My heart does not. I'm having a good time. Also, amidst my failings as a mother, I feel have failed this week as a wife and partner. Do you know what May 26th was? It was the anniversary of Beau's father's passing; the third year he has been gone. I was so fucking wrapped up in myself that I let that day come and go and I failed to say or do anything to mark it. Beau and I talk about Rob all the time. It's so important to us that RB knows his family, both those that are on this earthly plane with us and those that are not. As a partner and a best friend, I'm really disappointed in myself for letting this happen. I think back to watching my mother mourn her father and how hard February 1st is for her every year, which is the anniversary of his passing. The difference between my mother's mourning and Beau's mourning is my mother does it externally, and Beau does it internally. He doesn't wear his emotions like I do. He pushes his pain down and continues carrying on, much like a soldier who feels they cannot pause to feel the pain because it would pull them to a full stop. I know this and I still failed and let this day pass by. I'm not entirely where to go from there with this, other than this is where we are. It's heavy on my heart and this is where I write the things that weigh on me, so this one falls into the "guilt-ridden" section.
To your left, you'll see our second to last stop: a little bitchy. I'm going to say "a little" because it makes me feel better. It's been more like a lot, but shit, a girl can only take so much. I've been exhausted physically and emotionally, and I've smelled like sour milk for the better part of 3 days. Did I mention I was just down and out with some kind of flu or COVID sickness for a full 7 days prior? Coming off the end of that, going into this - I have not been a joy to be around. My sunny disposition has been dim.
Last and certainly least: annoyed by the cold A/C. Talk about first-world problems. I mean, I did have a pretty fun fever for a week and was so, so cold for so, so long. I actually sat in hour hot tub in like 80-degree weather the other day and was so appreciative to be so, so warm. Between me being sick and my veneer being thin, it's like I can't get this house to the right temperature. It seems to be the straw that is breaking my camel's back.
As I mentioned, I started writing this a day ago. I was in a very different place. Last night, I fell asleep early and slept almost a full 8 hours, I think. RB slept great. Hap slept great. Beau slept great. We are all better today for it. RB is feeling better, and so am I. I feel 67% more mentally stable today than I did the day before. I feel like I can now see a day when I can potentially laugh at my son morphing into a human geyser and the pure shock I experienced. I've talked to my husband, my parents, my mother-in-law, and my friends, and they have all assured me that I am doing just fine. My husband and my dad, separately, said the same thing to me: "This is not the last time he'll get sick, but he'll get through it, and you'll get him through it."
This is the most chaotic blog post ever. If you followed along, God bless you. If you are lost, God bless you. If you read this and identified with this, I raise a glass in your honor. We are fucking warriors. Smelly, exhausted, sometimes bitchy warriors who are trying.
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