I’ve been meaning to write for weeks, there’s definitely no shortage of material or news.
However, today, Ian has (I believe) Rotavirus again and I’m trying to take care of him as best I can. At least this time at age 3 he’s:
- drinking fluids (slowly)
- potty trained
The first clue to sickness was last Friday morning at 2 a.m. when I was abruptly woken to “Muuuuumee! I’m…*PHROAW! phroaw PHROAW!*” “Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh”, was all I managed to mutter and yelp at the same time. Key phrases in today’s lesson are: Beds, carpet, washing machine, carpet cleaner and attachments and lastly, couch-sleeping-pre-schooler.
Bryan, the sweetheart that he is, stayed up with Ian all night and slept in the La-Z-Boy next to Ian, allowing me to rest a little and take care of Cameron.
Over the following days, I endeavoured to keep Cameron away from Ian, but the little stinker dotes on his big brother’s every move, and the inevitable happened at 7 p.m. the following night. I can’t say I was ready for it, because I certainly didn’t want to be. He had been really clingy with me all day and was eating sporadically. I just couldn’t understand why at seven o’clock on a Saturday evening, he’d suddenly decided raisins were gross and juice was an abomination.
It all became very clear.
There’s definitely nothing like first-hand experience, especially if empathy is a goal you actively strive for. But just one person is never enough, so the two of us decided to try it out. Bryan first, and then me a day later. At least we paced ourselves, you can’t fault us for that.
Let’s just say, being British, I love meat pies. The closest thing I can find to what my Mum fed me growing up are pot pies. Damn Marie Callendar and her freakin Cheesy Parmesan Chicken flaky goodness! I’m still throw fiery daggers with my eyes at the sight of the box. It’ll be a while before I can bring myself to eat another one of those babies. You see, Rotavirus and I became previously acquainted. You could say he was my 15-year-old boyfriend. We were pretty close for three whole weeks. Inseparable, you might say. You may also know him by his street name, Gastric Flu or Gastroenteritis. I’ve been there, done that, and still can’t abide the smell of cherries thanks to the re-hydrating sachet powder crap they tried to make me drink. I’m not bitter. Not after, what? Ten years? (Shut your dirty mouth, I’m 25.)
So life was slowly plodding on. Days have passed and Cameron is eating like a bird (but at least eating), very picky, but still nursing and in great spirits. No temperature and no crankiness. Ian was doing much better, getting his appetite back and being adorably obnoxious.
On a bright note, the day started off well. With no real excuse, I didn’t get to sleep til 3 a.m. this morning, my sleep broken a few times, and with one eye short of feeling interrupted, I can’t help but wonder how I’m making it through the day coming off well-spoken and coherent with all the mind fluff floating around in there. My 7 a.m. alarm clock arrived at the side of my bed.
“Mummmee, my tummy hurts again.”
“Okay Ian, go in my bathroom”, perhaps said with a little too much flippancy, I might add.
That’s really all I remember.
My poor little Ian sat hunched over and helpless on the toilet. As I stood there, wondering how to help him, he threw up all over his legs and on the floor. I cleaned him up and placed him in the shower and took the toilet mat to the washer (that’s another story) and came back to silence. No water flow. Nothing. “Wow” I thought, “he’s cleaned up fast.” Not so. I opened the shower door to see him throwing up down the drain.
It went on like this for an hour-and-a-half, and all I could do was offer vocal support, rub his back and run to the washer.
Incidentally, if you’re running on 4 hours sleep, and if you need to wash your red bathroom mats, make sure there isn’t a beautiful, baby blue, soft shag, terry cloth changing table cover in there. Oh, and turn a light on. Better yet, put your contacts in. And if your child happens to refuse to rest anywhere except the oversized mat in front of the shower with a scrunched up bath towel for a pillow a mere half-a-foot from the toilet–when you take that bath mat to the washer, make sure there still isn’t something in there. Needless to say, I now have a perfectly lilac changing pad cover and a positively pink Scottish football team onesie.
Bring the angry mob and the mallets, I need a sign and a barricade. Make it 6’x36′, bevelled wood with beige vinyl lettering please. “Caution: Contaminated Keep Away.” Oh, and wash your hands, will you?