Getting all the shit out of the way early

So here we are. It's been about three weeks since I last logged into this blog. I've been thinking about it and how I want to write something (and respond to the thoughtful comments about Sandy Hook), but life has been a bit of a roller coaster—and not the good kind that tickles your stomach, but the kind where you cover your eyes, scream the entire time and then hurl as soon as you get off.

(I never did like roller coasters. I get nauseous driving down steep hills in the car.)

Since December 16, we've had two deaths in the family, Christmas and its accompanying windfall of wrapping paper and house guests, an open heart surgery, New Years, a friend with an illness, a cat with a tumor, a birthday for Everett (#2!), a birthday for me (closer to 40) and a radio that's been playing itself at night (more about that in the next post, I promise). 

And now we have the stomach bug.

But listen, I didn't sign onto this blog to share all my Debbie Downer moments of late. In fact, one of the reasons I miss blogging so much is that it gives me the chance to remember the funny moments interspersed in all of life's muck.

Like this morning when, after puking, Junior wobbled down the stairs and said, "I'm kind of shaky, Mom. I think I should lie on the couch and get my strength back." His voice cracked with concern. All I could picture was him at 50 in his flannel bathrobe and slippers, puttering down the stairs after having the flu or whatever and telling his wife the very same thing. There's an old soul in there—the most cautious, worried, tentative of souls.

It makes me smile, that I get to tend to this gentle man-boy.

Then there's Everett, who had puked just days earlier. The kid literally opened his mouth, vomited, and went back to playing. I can hear him calling Junior on the phone when they're adults (my God, by then they might be able to teleport to each other's homes) and telling him to suck it up; stop being such a grandpa. He's a little shithead, but Junior's going to need someone like that in his life.

I love watching these two grow. I love every day of learning more about who they are. I love this gift.

And now if you'll pray for me: I really, really, really don't want to get the puke bug.

Screw hand washing. The front door should come equipped with bleach and a shower head

Welcome to Germs in My Formula! The blog that coats you with germs while you sit and read! We've got plenty to go around this week. Today's specials are sinusitis, an ear infection, and a stomach bug. (If you have commitment issues, you can dabble in light stomach cramping and an aching head instead).

Ah, children. How I love them. How I love the veritable petri dishes they are.

They're a great invention, I tell ya. They go out into the world, pick their noses, shove their fingers in strange places, handle every surface known to man, then come back home and share all that germy goodness with the whole family.
 
I've been home sick from work all week. Chuck's been limping along in gastrointestinal distress. Everett's been a delight as he sprouts 29,765 new teeth and battles an inner ear infection. My four-year-old, Junior, was keeping us afloat and then tonight, it all went down the crapper.

Junior started complaining about his stomach right after dinner. (Why must children always get sick on the nights you serve spaghetti? Why?)

He made it to the bathroom (if you have children under the age of three, you understand what a special gift an independent puker is) then asked if I'd carry him, his stuffed animals, and his puke pan upstairs so he could go to sleep.

I said yes, of course. Even though he weighs over 50 pounds and I only weigh 125 (roughly, ehem). Even though our stairs are pitched at a 90 degree incline. Even though I am still weak from being sick myself.

Even though the last thing I wanted to do was to carry him up a steep flight of stairs and risk throwing out my back.



I picked him up, balanced the stuffed bear and giraffe under my arm pits, and cupped the puke pan in my right hand while clinging to the railing with the left.

Halfway up he told me he was going to be sick. I stopped, held the pan under his face, and let him do his thing.

Quite nicely he thanked me, then nodded for me to continue my climb—which I did with all the seriousness and determination of a climber trying to make the summit.

At that moment, as I held the pan and surveyed my surroundings, I was struck by thoughts of what I'd like for Mother's Day.

I realized I don't want diamonds or a spa retreat. Nor do I want fancy clothes, an exotic pet, or a yacht. I don't even care if I get roses. No, I decided that what I really, really want for Mother's Day is to not stand on the stairs—my legs quivering like jelly—while holding a 50-pound vomiting child, a stuffed bear and giraffe, and a puke pan.

And this is what I love most about motherhood: When you exist in a vacuum of bodily fluids, tantrums, and Elmo everything—and I do mean everything—seems so much more wonderful. Everything else is tinged with gold.

And hello, Chuck, this is a gift that is so attainable. I mean, you've got this in the bag, right? Chuck! Quit clutching your stomach and pretending you're in terrible pain. Chuck!

An apple a day my fricken ass

The grand finale of Junior’s fever and stomach complaint wasn’t a pukefest...it was a double ear infection.

For that I am eternally grateful.

Vomiting was such a routine part of my own childhood that I kept a sleeping bag in the bathroom. No parent wants to add “sleeping bag” to her child’s Christmas list because she sees him following in her footsteps. There are things to be sentimental about.

Vomit isn’t one of them.

Junior’s health has been a bit of a bumpy road this past year. The craptastic relationship we had with his pediatrician didn’t help matters. The list I made for “Top 10 signs you should switch pediatricians” was accurate, sadly. To say the doctor sucked would be an understatement.

Why didn’t I end the relationship sooner? I didn’t listen my gut, and I was blinded by the pediatrician’s reputation at Mulletville Hospital. To many folks, he walks on water. I kept believing that the next visit would be the one where I witnessed his magic.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

This summer I finally listened to my gut. A mother I met at the library raved about a doctor in Mulletville Lite. Her children were grown, but she said Dr. Blahblahblah had treated her children like family. If your kid was really, really sick, she saw you on the weekend (everyone knows that kids get sick at 5 pm on Friday—everyone). She was also good at diagnosing illnesses other than colds.

Since Junior suffers from an as-of-yet diagnosed stomach problem, I was sold.

We joined Dr. Blahblahblah’s practice. During our first visit, I noticed a lovely picture of Dr. Blahblahblah in the waiting room. She had an ethereal look to her—healing incarnate. I couldn’t wait to meet her.

Over the next few months I took the kids in for check-ups. For colds. For shots. I met with the staff to talk about a procedure for Junior at the Hartford Children’s Center.

Still no Dr. Blahblahblah.

I peeked in the windows. I peeked in the Record’s Room. I peeked in the bathroom.

Still no Dr. Blahblahblah.

I kept believing that the next visit would be the one where I met this damn doctor. Soon! Soon it would be our turn!

Then, this past weekend Chuck and I had to take Junior to the Mulletville Hospital ER. His stomach was acting up. We wanted to get to the bottom of it.

As I was filling out the paperwork, the doctor asked who Junior’s pediatrician was.

“Dr. Blahblahblah!” I said.

I waited for him to say, “Wow! That doctor is amazing!” Instead he laughed and said, “Really? Dr. Blahblahblah’s been dead for at least a year.”

“Dead?” I said. “She’s dead?”

“Cancer. Terrible thing.”

I suddenly understood the picture in the waiting room.

It seems I "suddenly" understand a lot these days.

Please, learn from my mistakes. If you're looking for a pediatrician, it's great to ask for recommendations, but make sure to visit the office first yourself. Google him or her and read up on ratings, if there are any.

Call the pediatrician's office and ask:

1. What hospital the doctor(s) is affiliated with
2. How common it is to be seen that day
3. If they have a weekend answering service
4. If the pediatrician(s) has any particular specialty
5. How many doctors vs. nurses the practice has and if you'll be seen by an RN or LPN more often than not
6. How many years of experience the pediatrician has

And finally,
7. If the pediatrician is alive

Did I miss anything?

P.S. Lest you think I am a total idiot, Dr. Blahblahblah's practice still answers the phone "Dr. Blahblahblah." So you see...