To borrow from Alexander, I'm having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Sam's sick. Well, he's recovering, but from an ick that's been here since this weekend. It's an ick that usually goes by "gastroenteritis" (or "stomach bug" for short). It showed up on Saturday in the form of nasty, nasty diarrhea that made Sam climb up onto his tippy-toes, screaming, to try to escape. On Monday, when he began to vomit, I took him to the doctor, just to make sure it wasn't anything serious. Yup, he concurred, stomach bug. Nothing to do but comfort him, make sure he keeps wetting his diapers, and let it run its course (so to speak).
On Tuesday, Eric woke up with the ick. "Different ick," he says, since he hasn't thrown up or had Sam's bowel troubles. (Quite the opposite bowel troubles, in fact, but that's venturing far into the realms of Too Much Information.) He did have a bad fever and chills that woke him in the night, along with general soreness and a bad headache. He went to work anyway, but was home and in bed by three.
And then came today, which dawned on a home-from-work husband, a bouncing-off-the-walls son, and an exhausted-beyond-belief me. Our heat's been causing us trouble, which means we've been running on "emergency system," a much dryer alternative, and we've all been getting horrid dry mouth at night. Last night, the dry mouth, combined with his ick, led Sam to nurse all night long. Literally, that is; I don't believe that there was a single stretch of as much as ten minutes during which he wasn't attached to me. Normally I can remain asleep through his nursings, but when they're nonstop and I can't roll over or move at all, it makes for a sleepless night.
Anyway, on to the day. I was tired, and I had a million things to accomplish. I sat in bed next to my Ick-Boys and addressed Christmas cards, and then I put some finishing touches on a couple of gift exchange Christmas presents. "Eric," I said, "I need to run to the bank, the craft store, and to the post office. I should only be gone for a short time, and I don't want to pop Sam in and out of his carseat for those stops. I'm going to leave him here with you, and I'll be back as soon as I can." He was agreeable, Sam was in relatively good spirits, so we kissed goodbye and I was gone.
I stopped at the craft store first. I don't want to reveal the exact nature of this errand, since it was to put the final work on a gift for somebody who reads this journal, but suffice it to say that I was in and out of the store quickly with my purchases in hand. I sat in my car, opened the bag, and tried to attach the items to the gift. They didn't quite fit, but I was working hard on adjusting them. Just a little bit of extra pressure, and...
Snap! A part of the gift broke. A wooden part, in fact. A very sharp wooden part, and one that wasn't content to just snap in half. Oh, no, it first bent, and then in sprang upward and jammed itself deep into the meaty pad of my right index finger before detaching itself in a long rip downward through my flesh. I screamed and swore; my finger began to bleed.
With my finger in my mouth (ow, it stings, ow, it stings), I pulled through the parking lot up to a restaurant. Running in, I approached the hostess and whimpered, around my finger, a request for a Band-Aid. Two bright blue Band-Aids were given to me, along with much sympathetic cringing, and I departed - along with a replacement wooden piece for the gift. Determination, thy name is Carrie.
I fixed the gift and headed for the post office. There, I was confronted with the Holiday Hustle and Bustle in full force; there was a line that filled the office stretching ahead of me. I grumbled as my finger ached and bled through the bandage.
On to the bank, where there was a thankfully short wait, and I was on my way home. Whoops! I almost forgot that Eric requested a Subway lunch. A quick detour, then, and then back home. I came through the door and was immediately met with the sounds of Sam screaming for me.
"He's been doing that for half an hour!" Eric griped.
"Did you give him Jell-O? Pick him up?" It was a mistake to ask; Eric took it as an assumption that he'd been a lousy father, and he was quite hurt. Sam, meanwhile, had perked up at the arrival of Mommy, not to mention the banana I'd brought with me. We ate lunch and went back upstairs to bed for naptime.
Now it was evening, and Eric wanted more Subway. (The ick brings with it strange cravings that can be dangerous to ignore.) I headed out into the big, bad world, where I was barraged with countless annoyances: the Subway counter girl had a nasty cold that I'm sure tried to latch onto me, the ATM was broken, the girls at Arby's (I couldn't handle another Subway meal for myself) were deeply stupid, and I caught every single red light on the way there and back. I opened the door, back at home, fully expecting to hear wails, but Sam was sweetly quiet. His eyes immediately lit up at my approach, which made me feel appreciated.
The feeling of appreciation was short-lived, as it became apparent that his greeting was for the cup I held in my hands. Strawberry milkshake, yum! He grabbed it from the table the moment I put it down, and he quickly drank as much as he could. I was graciously allowed to share a bit of it, while he impatiently would hold out his hands and beckon for the cup's return.
And now I'm typing, but Eric is vying for my attention, and Sam is caroming about the room on a manic sugar high, and my head hurts, and I'm tired. I need to clean the humidifier, straighten the room, change the boy's diaper, take out the trash, and...
Is that a muscle ache? A bit of a flush feeling? Oh, no; please, not the ick! I refuse to succumb! I have too much to do!
| previous |
one year ago:
Never let it be said that the readers of this journal don't have strong opinions.
two years ago:
The library sent me to a Mock Caldecott panel, and I got to participate in a limited version of what the actual Caldecott panel will do in January.
three years ago:
And then, this morning, a close friend happily announced her long-awaited third pregnancy. I was crushed. |
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On the Stereo:
The Simpsons
On the Bookshelf:
Nuttin'.
Gratuitous Sam
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