Rude Awakenings or The Case Against Bunk Beds

Yesterday was pretty action packed, so that might have been the cause.  We started with Big Dog's soccer match, then a trip to Toys R Us where Grandma bought Big Dog his birthday present and Little Dog got a microphone (not sure this was a great idea in retrospect, but he seems to be enjoying it...a bit too much perhaps).  After that it was off to Costco where we stocked up on pajamas and the boys had hot dogs for a late lunch.  By the time we got home, there was a little time to play with the new toys before we headed off to the Seattle Sounders match.    That's a lot for two little men, and for their mom.

We made it through the game and back home.  When got back home they were even tired enough to fall asleep quickly.  Or at least that's why we thought they fell asleep.  We were proven wrong about 45 minutes later when Little Dog woke up crying.  And then we heard the splash sound.  And another.  Yep, he was awake and vomiting.

Mr. Dog and I sprung into action, I got Little Dog out of his dirty shirt and into the bathroom, poised near the toilet just in case there were more stomach contents that were waiting to escape.  I started to strip the sheets while trying not to lose any of the already lost chunks.  If you've ever tried to change the sheets on an upper bunk in the dark without waking a sleeping child on the lower bunk, you'll understand the acrobatics involved.  I was just getting the first sick-spattered pillow off the bed and into the washer when Mr. Dog was working on cleaning the splatter up off the floor.  That's when he discovered the mess was worse than expected. 

Not only had he filled his sheets and dosed the floor in vomit, he'd also given his brother a vomit hat.  We're still not sure how he managed to vomit so precisely on his brother's head and pillow on the lower bunk, but there are larger questions here to ponder.  How did his brother manage to sleep through it?

The first cut

I'll get the questions answered up front.  Yes, they still do it.  No, it was for obstructive sleep apnea.
Yes on Tuesday Big Dog had his tonsils and adenoids out.  The first thing nearly everyone has said was "Wow!  I didn't think they did that anymore!"

Well they do, and we had it done.  What seemed like it would be a recipe for a harrowing week actually started off pretty smoothly.  Even with our surgery sign in time being at 6:45 am in Bellevue, requiring a trip across one of the most notorious traffic generators in the Seattle area, aka the floating parking lot,  we more or less sailed through.  Granted, traffic seems to be less of an issue at 6:00 am, so we arrived about a half hour early then got to wait for a while before they were ready.
Thankfully my mom and dad came up from Portland to help out, so Ansel was left sleeping quietly in our bed (after throwing up in the middle of the night just to mix things up) with the Grands there to entertain him once he woke up. And when he woke up he felt great, he just likes to keep me on my toes.

Surgery was scheduled at 7:30 am.  We did the check in, met with the nurses, the nurse anesthetist, the anesthesiologist, the ENT and what felt like half the staff of Children's Hospital.   My only hesitation was when I met the nurse anesthetist and he looked young enough to be in school with Big Dog, but that panic faded when he mentioned his own three children.  Turns out he's just one of those people blessed with genetics that defy aging.  Not fair, but not too worrisome.
Big Dog played with his Nintendo DS, answered questions, chatted with the medical staff then quickly drifted off to sleep with the scented laughing gas.  The surgery was quick and he was alert and even chatty in recovery.  The nurse was impressed by his willingness to drink fluids immediately, by his smiles and his jokes, by just how OK he seemed to feel right off the bat.
Once we got him home he wanted to eat breakfast with us.  Eggs.  We talked him into Jello and Gatorade.  I think we were all stunned about the lucid and happy child we got out of surgery since we were all expecting a subdued and painful patient.  The happy boy continued for the first two days.  After that the numbing agent the surgeon put on the incision site faded and the real pain started.  And Big Dog decided that he didn't like the kiddie Vicodin and refused to take it.  We tried mixing it with juice, coaxing him with the promise of popsicles, ice cream or more juice.  It wasn't until he was absolutely miserable and I'd made two calls to the on-call ENT at Children's Hospital to check what other options we had for pain relief and finally was told there were really none, that he finally agreed and assisted me in devising a method to take the dreaded medication.  Since then we've been more or less on the right track.  If the right track includes a child waking up screaming and sobbing in the morning or a normally sleep resistant child sneaking off to bed in the middle of the day for a three-hour nap. 
Finally we've had two mornings start silently.  He climbed into our bed and snuggled up, but there were no tears.  And today he even managed to go to school for a shortened day.
Tomorrow they have a field trip.  He's slated to go and I think he'll do fine.  I just can't wait until I quit counting down the hours between medication doses.  I'd also like stop dreaming that Mr. Dog and I have gone out on a date and left the sleeping kids at home alone.  I'm sure it's somehow related, but I'm not quite sure how.

The choice to vaccinate

Today was not supposed to be that stressful. I decided to work from home so I could more easily sort out my passport application and then later take the boys to their annual pediatrician appointment. The first part of that went smoothly. The rest? Well, I'll just say it shortened my lifespan. By ten years. And that's a conservative estimate.

I managed to muddle through my day, attend my meetings and even get Big Dog and Little Dog to the doctors office on time. This is no mean feat when you have to pick up children in two opposing directions from our house and bring them to a third location about equidistant between the other two pick up points. But I did it. And while I probably should get some kind of "Awesome Time Management and Trip Scheduling" award for it, I know I won't. It's just part of that whole "mom as unsung hero" thing we deal with every day. Even the bulk of the check up went well. The boys listened and followed instructions well. Ok, apart from the eye exam that Little Dog more or less told the nurse was taking too long and refused to participate any longer. I'm not sure how accurate the final assessment was given his attitude about the whole thing, but they didn't refer us to an optometrist, so I think I'll just call it good enough. When we got to the room and the doctor, a resident who was working in the practice that day, came in without our regular doctor, the boys were completely charming and cooperative. I know, it sounds completely unreal, but it happened. I promise.
Then midway through the appointment, Big Dog reminds me that he doesn't like shots and didn't want any. I told him to ask the doctor if there were any vaccinations required today. So he asked, and the doctor told him that he'd need to check, but we began a discussion of why we do vaccinations. The doctor and I both explained that vaccinations help prevent diseases that are way worse than the little stab and that even though no one enjoys vaccinations, they are an essential part of staying healthy. And they bought it. Especially Big Dog who found out a few minutes later that there were no shots due, so he was off the hook until he was 9 or 10. Score! Little Dog was not so lucky. He needed three boosters, but the propaganda campaign paid off. He was willing to get the shots and just wanted to get them done.

We finished the check up, talked to our regular doctor and then the nurse came in. Right before she arrived, Little Dog recanted. He no longer wanted shots. He just wanted to go. I reminded him of the importance of vaccinations and he agreed again, but with much less vigor. So when the nurse came in he climbed into my lap, we rolled up his sleeve and he got a jab. And then the screaming started. He no longer wanted the other shots. He was mad. He was begging with me, "NO, mama, NO!" and I had to hold my baby still while the clumsy nurse stabbed him twice more. It was so bad that Big Dog started crying out of sympathy and as the nurse prepped the third shot he yelled at me, "Mama! Little Dog doesn't want any more. Can't you hear him say it?"

I felt like hell when it was all done, and Little Dog was pissed. He was crying and shouting and telling me he didn't love me anymore. He even hit me then threatened to hit me again "Hard-so you'll cry too!" He was mad. I hadn't listened to him and I even held him firmly in place while the wicked nurse gave him the shots. In his mind, I was the problem. Even knowing that the shots were for his health and well-being didn't help me from feeling like the worst mother in the history of shitty moms. So I did what I do best, I caved and resorted to bribes. We got to the car and between the tears and reprimands from the boys, we agreed to head to Target.

When we got there we headed directly for the toys. On the way, Little Dog passed a rack of swim trunks featuring super heroes and demanded we head back. I, being fully steeped in guilt, did as he asked. We decided against the swim trunks and opted for new Batman t-shirts. When we headed off to the toy aisles, Little Dog clung to the side of the cart, holding on with one hand, his feet on the lower bar, the other hand whacking at the clothing racks. Yes, I know this is unsafe. Trust me, I know. After asking him to stop, he looked at me, glared, then wound up to give the rack one more monumental whack! And when he did, he had wound up so much, his other hand lost its grip and he fell, right off the cart and bashed his head on the corner of a clothing shelf foot. It was immediately clear he was injured. I swooped in and checked his scalp for a cut, I kissed and soothed him and I thought we were clear and counted us very very lucky. This was apparently a bit premature, a few minutes later he complained that something was hurting his ear and when I looked, his perfect little ear was bloody, purple and bloated.

I told the boys we needed to get Little Dog to the doctor to have his ear looked at. The screaming was almost instantaneous. Little Dog began howling, LOUDLY, that he did not like the doctor and he did not want another shot. When I told them we'd get the presents later, all hell broke loose so I ended up just rushing through the nearest check out lane to quickly buy the toys and get back to the car. Naturally this had to happen at rush hour, so the trip across town that usually takes 15 minutes took more than 30, and as I drove, Little Dog began to nod off in the car. Now I know precious little about head injuries, but I do know that you are supposed to watch out for kids falling asleep after a blow to their head. I kept telling him to stay awake and he kept telling me "I was just tired!" or "I was just being quiet. I like to be quiet!"
Finally we arrived at the ER at Children's Hospital and got checked in, and in the way of all injured children, he immediately began acting perfectly well and not at all like the cranky, sleepy, seriously injured kid I had rushed across town.

3 hours, 5 doctors and at least one Disney movie on the in room TV later, we were headed home. Mr. Dog joined us and we had waited out the observation period together. In the end, yes, he's fine. His ear, while swollen and purple, did not need stitches and the bruise did not need to be drained. In fact, he is complaining more about his arms being sore from the shots than he is about his ear. But while he may be perfectly fine, requiring only a check in with his primary doctor in a week to ensure things are healing up ok, I am now completely emotionally drained. I believe I require extensive wine therapy to recover. In fact, I'm working on that right now.

On a side note, a huge shout out to Children's Hospital. If your kid is hurt, sick or needs care, this is the place to go. Not only do they have top notch doctors for your child, they are damn nice to a mom who feels frazzled and guilty and weepy watching her boy suffer an improbable injury.

Sick day

It's not that I don't believe him. I believe that he believes he is sick. I just didn't think he was all that sick in the big scheme of things. Yesterday Big Dog woke up with a sore throat and a cough. Not a bad cough, just a little bit of a hacking cough. The kind of cough a kid gets is they have a stuffy head. And the sore throat? Well, I chalked that up to the same stuffy head and a night of breathing through his mouth. But I kept him home from school. I'm trying to be the good mom, the one who doesn't send a sick child back to the classroom to infect his classmates. I worked from home and he spent the better part of the day on the sofa watching TV. But he didn't seem sick. Not really.

By dinner time we knew something was up. He was tired, and before dessert was served, he'd gone to his room and climbed into bed. Not long later he was asleep. Occasionally through the night I heard a bit of coughing. Then 5 am rolled around. He was having a full fledged coughing fit. He climbed into our bed and told me he didn't want any blankets. This is not my Big Dog, not at all. So he sipped some water and I gave him some honey to calm the cough and after a while his cough started to mellow. He was almost asleep. Then he made a sound, like an injured puppy. A sound that let me feel his pain and frustration. And then he threw up.

Poor kid. I will not make the mistake of doubting him when he tells me he is sick again, not any time soon.

Walking the walk

We've been more or less living in a sick ward for the past week. Big Dog and Little Dog have had some kind of miserable virus that has kept them knocked down with high fevers, a cough, congestion and vomiting. Oh the vomiting.

It finally feels like we're pulling out of it. Little Dog has recovered more or less, as long as you don't excite him too much. Big Dog hasn't had a fever or vomiting in days so we were able to send him back to preschool but now all he wants to do is sleep. Yesterday he came home and took a nap after preschool. He was still napping when I got home from work, kept on sleeping through dinner, woke up for a brief grouchy interlude then demanded to go to bed and slept almost through the night. And this is one of my kids that doesn't sleep. Unfortunately going to sleep at 3pm has a bit of a downside. He is wide awake and wants to get up at about 5am. We are not. This is a problem. We've been able to convince him to go back to sleep both days he's done an epic sleep, but not for long.

I'm completely done in by the week of broken sleep. I'm wiped out, I could probably sleep for a week if given half a chance. But seeing that moms are not college students, that chance never comes.

And even though they've been sick, and I'm functioning on an empty sleep tank I still feel lucky. See this past Sunday I walked in the March for Babies, the March of Dimes fund-raising walk. They support research into birth defect prevention, work to prevent premature birth and support pregnancy education to help make sure all babies are born healthy. But we aren't there yet. Not by a longshot. As part of the walk the organizers handed out leis to walkers who had been affected by a premature birth, a child born with birth defects and those who had lost a child. I was walking in a sea of leis. Many families wore more than one. And I was fortunate enough to have none. So though I was walking while my kids were home sick, and though I returned to clean up vomit after dinner and be woken multiple times that night, I am one of the most fortunate women in the world. Albeit covered in puke at times.

If you haven't made a donation to the March of Dimes, please consider doing so. They do amazing work.

The coughs

Everyone in my family is coughing. No, coughing is too nice a word. Hacking. Yeah, it's more like hacking, I'd say. Miserable miserable hacking. For the past 4 days I've been coughing so much my abs ache. My back aches too. Hell, my whole body aches.

For the boys it seems the simple solution is a spoonful of honey. Really, it helps quiet their coughs. It works so well they have started calling it "Helping Honey." Cute, I have my own little future marketing executives.

So today I'm feeling kind of desperate. I cannot quit coughing. If this keeps up I'll probably re-enter that "when I cough, I pee my pants a little bit" stage that new moms have right after giving birth. Well, if by right after you mean for months even a year after...but I digress. I was desperate. I decided to give it a try. I big spoon of honey to kick the cough down a notch.

Guess what, it works. Granted I find "Helping Honey" a lot more helpful if I stir it into a cup of boiling water with a big squeeze of lemon and some cloves. Oh yeah, and a couple of shots of whiskey. Yep, that helps mommy in more ways than I can count. Come on, it's for medicinal purposes. slurp.

Emesis.

When Little Dog had the flu, he announced his intention to vomit with a series of loud angry yells. He'd gag and choke for a moment and spew just a little bit of his stomach contents. You could tell the whole process pissed him off.

I can hear Mr. Dog vomit all the way down the hall. He sounds like he's being assaulted by the process, punched in the stomach as it empties. He coughs and sputters and sounds like he may not survive the process.

Big Dog just gets up and walks quickly and quietly to the bathroom. When he vomits, he completely empties his stomach. You can hear the gush hit the toilet water like a tidal wave. There is no production around the act, just the simple dumping of his food.

And me, how do I vomit? I'll keep you posted, because I think this queasy stomach is the beginnings of that same flu.

Welcome home.

Mr. Dog and I were fortunate enough to spend the weekend with a bunch of good friends in Las Vegas. We ate out, drank too much (in some cases waaaaaay too much) and hung out by the pool. We lounged in the sun, read magazines, spoke freely with other grown ups and generally behaved as though we had no kids. Well, apart from the daily phone calls to check in and my nerves over leaving them for the entire weekend.

NE was kind enough to watch them so we could host Auntie Chihuahua's Hen Party. As it turns out, this was the same weekend as my dad's high school reunion, so the grands were not available. This was the first time I've ever left the kids overnight with anyone else. I was worried, I didn't have enough time to prepare the meals I'd thought I would prepare (in what spare time I'd expected to do this, I don't know). The house wasn't spotless (as though it ever is) and I had to pack some of my own clothes while they were still slightly damp because I am not a laundress. It all worked out.

The boys loved their weekend of floor beds, sleep overs, movies and indulgence. Every time I talked to them, they raved about how much fun they were having. It was like a kiddie version our our own Vegas experience. (NE even coached Little Dog into leaving a message on my cell phone reminding me "what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas").

After two nights, we got our flight home. It was the last flight out to Seattle, and it was full. We finally got home close to midnight, got caught up with NE, the boys were sound asleep. She left and I started to change into my jammies. And then I heard it. The unmistakable gagging of a just about to puke Big Dog. I rushed into his room just in time to see him cover his bed, his hair and his pajamas with vomit.

My vacation was officially over. It was like "Hey mom and dad, welcome home. Here's what I had for dinner!" But smellier. Ahhh, motherhood.

My Super Powers

Becoming a mother has changed a lot of things for me. New goals, new interests, even a new set of tools. In addition to the new padding on my ass and middle section, my blossoming appreciation of singing rodents and clue seeking dogs and a newfound compulsion to be the "coolest" mom in the preschool (yes, burgeoning Alpha-mom tendencies I struggle to keep in check), my hearing has become a finely honed tool. I can be sound asleep yet if I hear the kind of gagging and coughing that usually precedes vomit, I will wake up and move at lightening speed right to the side of the ailing child, ready, willing and able to take on the contents of the little stomach vying to make an appearance while simultaneously comforting the nauseated child. There was a time in my life that these same sounds were considered warning signs, a signal to jump back and avoid splatter on your "going out" shoes. Granted, that type of regurgitation was usually the result of over-indulgence of one kind or another. That kind of retch usually came at the end of a long night out with the girls, frequently involving tequila. What an interesting transformation. Not only do I hear and respond like some kind of puke seeking SWAT team, my previously hair-trigger gag response has been modified to tolerate the stench of my own children's output. Handy, especially when one of my responses to vomit is to reach out and catch this spew in my own two hands. I'm still trying to figure out why that is part of this new "gift", what is to be gained if I do manage to catch it? Nothing, just a big handful of puke. And precisely what am I supposed to do with that?

At any rate, it is good that I have been selected for these new powers since Big Dog has a ridiculously sensitive gag response. In our house a coughing fit at bedtime is almost always followed by dinner revisited, a change of pjs, a change of bedsheets and a mom with puke in her hair. Little Dog is less susceptible, but not completely immune. Since he is currently battling the same cold/flu that kept me housebound for two days, I decided to saline spray his nose last night. Much gagging ensued, followed by a lot of screaming, crying and yes, finally a gooey splash of vomit. Mr. Dog finally managed to calm him down and get him to bed. When the adult faction of the family finally settled under the blankets and snuggled down to sleep, my thoughts drifting to dreams my radar got a little blip. A cough. Two coughs, a gag and I was bolt upright. Shooting out of bed in perfect coordination with my trusty sidekick "Puke Dad", this "Vomit Mama" was back in action. Puke Dad hoisted Big Dog out of his bed and carried him into the bathroom, Vomit Mama retrieved towels, clean jammies and gathered up sheets and remade the bed. In less than 30 minutes from first gag to post-spew tuck in, we were back in bed. The term "well oiled machine" springs to mind.

Sure I'd have much preferred the power to use mind control to will my children into an early bedtime, or the ability to seek out the source of those odd and lingering smells in my car, but I'll take what I'm given. Even if it involves hands that inexplicably rush to function as emesis basins. With every blessing comes a curse, right?