So, I was relating this story to Matt, and he was looking at me like, "I'm sorry, why the hell are you talking to me?" So I'm going to share it here.

I was in this totally awesome organic kids store today. My mom took us down there because she wanted the kids to pick out easter gifts. They, of course, had lots of adorable, overpriced, all organic clothing as well.

We were getting our stuff, and getting ready to check out, and this woman comes in. She goes over to the little boys clothing and goes through it. She comes up to the counter, all attitude, "do you not have any size 1-2yrs in this (don't remember) clothing brand?" The checker is like, "uh, I don't know..." The woman goes, "Well, I looked through ALL the shirts and there are NO 1-2yrs." (my brain goes, "duhhhh?" Do you guys see the problem I did? - for non parents, children's clothing typically goes, 0-3m - months, 3-6m, 6-9m, 9-12m, 12-18m, 18-24m, 2t - toddler - 3t, 4t, 5t, and so on)

So the chasier tells her there is more clothing back here around the corner, right back here. (shows her) And comes back to the counter. As she gets ready to ring us out again, from the back room, "these are all girls clothing. I don't see any boys clothes. I don't know what you're trying to show me here, but there are no boy clothes!" Attitude lady comes back out to the front room. "I mean, are you just out of stock of 1-2yrs? Do you have an order coming or what?" Cashier lady is all, "I don't think so....." clearly this poor woman just works there.

Cashier says they have 18-24m on the other rack. Attitude lady says, "well he's growing out of 24m already and I don't want to buy him something he's just going to grow out of." So now, attitude lady, and cashier lady are both searching every shirt in the store looking for one that reads 1-2 years.

At this point, in hopes of getting checked out some time before the kids TOTALLY melt down, I decide to help. "Well, usually after 24m is 3t." The size you're holding looks like a 2t, what's it say?"

"It says 2-3years."

"Oh, well, let's see." So I went over to the smaller clothing, and pull off an 18-24m, and held it up to the 2-3years. It's EXACTLY the same size (and same clothing brand.) I said, "yea, see? They're the same. You probably want to buy another size up."

She says, "well he's only 18m, I can't buy him a 3 year old shirt!" (Aghast)

uummmm..... ok... well.... hm

She goes on to say she knows this clothing designer makes a 1-2years size because she owns something marked that way. I tell her I've never owned anything by the designer, so I'm sure she's right, but if her son is growing out of the size I'm holding, and it's exactly the same size as the one she's holding, that buying a SMALLER size is probably not going to work. (Yes, I allowed probably) I point over to my son and say, "he's only 3, but he's in a 6T size."

At which point she's all, "thanks for your help, do you work here?" I'm all, "no, just trying to be helpful." (because saying, I'm just trying to get the cashier to check my ass out, seemed impolite.)

So we got checked out (after several tries - the cashier hasn't worked there very long apparently) and the lady continued wandering around the clothing rack presumably making SURE there were no 1-2year shirts there.

The thing is, I'm telling you guys this, and you KNOW this woman is somewhere going, "this crazy lady in the clothing store, that didn't even WORK there, wanted me to buy a 3year old shirt for my 14month old. Can you IMAGINE? I KNOW, what a freak." I really was trying to be helpful. (as well as expedite this getting the hell out of there thing. Demon was just grabbing everything in the store by then)

Potty Training: The Story and The Secret

Anyone with a child who can walk has thought about potty training. Chances are you have looked into one of the methods, the books, asked friends for advice, searched the internet, asked your parents, what have you.  At this point you know there are about three million books about potty training. Some for the parents, "Potty Training Boys the Easy Way: Helping Your Son Learn Quickly--Even If He's a Late Starter," and some for kids, "Where's the Poop?" a catchy little flip book for little people.  This week I finally discovered the secret.  Let me first start by sharing our potty training story, and why it was only 1 month before Demon's 3rd birthday that we finally came across this secret. 


At two and a half my son woke up dry from naps and bedtime. He could talk about the potty, seemed to understand the concept, and was at a good age to give it a shot.  We got Froggy Potty, pull-ups, kids friendly wipes, soap, a step stool, and a lot of advice. The problem was, he showed no interest.  Ok, no problem. We put Froggy in the bathroom and let him sit on it whenever either of us went to the bathroom.  Around this same time Demon decided he didn't want anyone to change his diaper. He wanted to wear one, he just never wanted it changed. Every diaper change involved a kicking, screaming, hitting, biting, wrestling match.  I was seven months pregnant, and dreaded every diaper change. The diaper changes got worse and worse, and, if there was poop? Forget it. It was easily a two person job. One person to hold the top half of him down, and the other to try and retrain the bottom half while cleaning poop, while also minimizing the poop that ended up everywhere else (including on both parents.)  There's little worse then having to physically battle someone to get them to allow you to do something you really don't want to do. Amazingly enough, even as a mommy, wiping someone else's ass wasn't on the top of my list of things I actually wanted to do. 


I was complaining to one of my friends one day who had older children. She said, "Oh, my son did that too." Hallelujah!  At least it was normal behavior, and not some weird manifestation of early diaper changing trauma (this is a joke, but if you've ever been a parent you know, you question every possible thing your kid does looking to see if maybe there is something wrong, and if maybe it's your fault.)  She told me that what she ended up doing was buying a thing of super cheap diapers, and telling her son if he sat in poop all day he'd get ouchies on his butt.  She said he figured it out pretty quickly. I mean, who wouldn't? (haha) Brilliant! 


So, the next time my kid took a big old crap and acted like I was trying to forcibly remove his soul when I told him it needed to be changed I let him run around in it.  After an hour I got sick of smelling him, though he, apparently, wasn't sick of sitting in it. So I wrestled him into the bedroom and stripped the diaper off. Sure enough, he had a big old diaper rash on his butt. "See, this is what happens when you sit around in poop. If you just let mommy clean you up, you wouldn't have an ouchie."  Unfortunately, the diaper rash and didn't improve his outlook on diaper changing.  


The next day he pooped again (it tends to be a daily occurrence, which is why the physical assault during it was wearing thin.)  He did not want me to change his diaper. If possible, he was even more vehement then the night before. By the time I wrestled him into the bedroom, and got his diaper off he had a big, giant, open sore on his diaper rash. This, remarkably enough, didn't make wiping all the crap off his butt any easier.  This seems to be around when he decided he NEVER wanted his diaper changed, and any attempt turned into a lion wrestling match.  He didn't want his diaper changed, EVER, he screamed when I put him in the bath, looked at the wipes container, or even suggested diaper cream.  After a few days things had gotten so bad I took him into the doctor. Sure enough, he had a staph infection on his butt.  (with a 1in by 1in open sore)  We got antibiotics, diaper cream, and a recommendation to add some baking soda to his bath water to help take the sting out. 


After the infection cleared up, he was still a monster about diaper changes. I mean, I completely understand when it hurts, but once it stopped hurting, he got even worse.  He turned into a, well, Demon. Screaming, howling, kicking, biting, screaming, running, writhing, did I mention the screaming? He was suddenly like an unhappy cat, hard to catch and all sharp points.  One afternoon he was so bad I was sure he'd broken my nose and given me a black eye. (He had given me a black eye before, and broken my toe, so it wasn't out of the question honestly)  I had had enough.  I told him he wasn't getting any more diapers and left the room. 


He was not happy about this sudden change, and it probably wasn't the best way to start potty training, but I was at a loss for anything else to do. Reduced to tears and hopelessness with a small baby in the house, I set Froggy in front of the TV, and told him he wasn't getting any more diapers, or pants for awhile. So he ran around naked from the waist down. 

Amazingly, it worked. He peed in the potty. Every. Single. Time. There wasn't one accident on the floor. If I suggested he pee in the potty he threw a fit, but if i just ignored him he went all on his own. He even did it standing up, and never missed. Well, that was easy. 


My husband wasn't really on board with this naked child approach I'd decided to take. He was sure that our son should not be *gasp* outside without pants on. So, every time Demon went outside Husband made him put on pants. (I mean, maybe he had a point. I suppose naked toddler is a little startling for the neighbors in a neighborhood where you can see everything in everyone's backyard for the entire block)  Here we hit a snag. When we put underwear and pants on him he peed in them, every time.  Well, ok, but he still went on the potty when inside, as long as he didn't have pants on, and it was summer.  This could still potentially work...


All parents learn quickly that peeing and pooping in the potty are two very different things. Pee is fine, poop, not so much so. Usually he'd wait for me to put a diaper on him at nap time. I told him if he pooped in the potty he could wipe, but if he pooped in his diaper he had to let me wipe him up. Which wasn't so bad. He was getting better about letting me clean it up. 


Then, one nice summer day, about two days in, he came inside and told me he pooped outside and the dogs ate it. I double checked this statement to make sure we weren't having a communication error.  He was adamant that he'd pooped in the backyard and the dogs had eaten it.  I was skepitcal. Our dogs had never eaten poop before (though, in all fairness, as far as I know, no one had ever pooped in our yard before) and Demon had just starting telling me made up stories, (I'm a pirate, I'm a puppy, I went on a boat) so having him make something like that up was pretty standard.  I shared the story with some friends and we all had a good laugh at my imaginative child. 


Two days later he came inside, said, "I did it!" and handed me his underwear. I said, "you did what?" He said, "poop." I said, "you have to poop?" He said, "yea." I stood up so we could do the potty thing, and the smell hit me. I look a little more closely at the underwear I was holding. I said, "I think maybe you already pooped some." He says, "yea. I poop! Outisde."  Well, shit. (literally) As I gathered my poop filled underwear, and asked him to walk to the bathroom so I could throw them in the wash and clean him up, and I get a good look at him. It wasn't just poop, it was diarrhea. It was all down his legs, on the bottoms of his feet, on his butt, there were little diarrhea footprints through my house, ARGH! POOP! EVERYWHERE!  


I took him into his bedroom, laid a towel down, and told him to lie down on it.  I tried to wipe as much up as I could, but it was sticky, and dried, and EVERYWHERE.  So, I cleaned him up the best I could, and stuck him in the tub. I washed the poop off, and drained and filled the tub a couple of times. Then I added bubbles and toys and let him play, with the bathroom door open. I collected the clothes, the towel, and anything else he may have touched, and threw it all in the wash. I them cleaned the little poo footprints all through the house. I checked on him one last time (Disclaimer: out house is really small, so the whole time I was not more then 5 feet away form him at most) and opened the back door to check the deck, which is where he said he pooped.  I took a good look and didn't see any poop. I did, however, see three dogs happily licking their chops. 


Take a minute, it's gross. 


This is the exact moment I decided my kid could go to college in diapers. It's fine. He'll be fine. I mean, maybe a little socially awkward, but not pooping-in-theback-yard-laughing-when-the-dogs-eat-it socially awkward. Back in diapers he went. Luckily for me, for whatever reason, he'd gotten over his screaming, fighting, whatever, thing that had been going on. Now he let me change his diapers like a nice civilized child. Why not? He'd won this battle. No potty training for him. 


That fall he started in a daycare. I stay home, but he was freaking out being stuck inside all day with me and the baby. So, after several harrowing weeks I decided he needed more social interaction. He loved daycare. He loved the kids, the teachers, the learning, everything.  Two days before the beginning of December my husband got laid off (which is a whole different blog post) and we pulled Demon out of daycare until we worked out a plan. (or a job) When he left his current teacher told us when he came back he would be in the three year old room, and that he was ready to potty train. She said every day when they went to the bathroom, he went in, took off his dry diaper, sat on the potty and went. His diapers were dry and clean all day at daycare. Well, ok, here's a professional, someone who has worked for years with children, telling me that my kid is ready and we shouldn't have any problems. Maybe a few accidents, but no real problems. Plus, it was freezing cold out. Not the kind of weather that makes one wants to pull their pants down outside. These are both good signs. She gave me a hand out and sent us home. 


The first thing the hand out said was, no pull ups, nothing with a waterproof liner, nothing but regular underwear. Everything that keeps the wetness in, also keeps them from getting uncomfortable. If they're never uncomfortable why would they want to stop what they're doing to go to the bathroom? Good point. 


And this is when I figured out the trick to potty training. The secret to potty training is: you put them in regular pants and wait for them to get sick of peeing on themselves. Yup, that's it. That's the whole trick. The problem is that parents (me) don't want to clean up the mess form potty training so we try all these new, awesome, inventions, and technology, and spend all this money. The truth is, it usually won't work.  What works, every time, is putting them in pants and waiting for them to get sick of peeing on themselves. I mean, it has to happen eventually, right?  So, I decided, "ok, he won't go to college in diapers. He may go to college peeing in his pants, but it won't be in diapers." One step forward. 


It's been several months since I started this blog post. The "secret" still holds true. Austin did ok with potty training. He got it all figured out, and had no accidents for days. Then it got boring and he started going in his pants again. I just kept cleaning him up, and hoping he'd eventually get bored of sitting in poop. (I mean, I know it's been three years, but eventually he has to, right?)  


He started back to daycare, now a 3-4 year old preschool room. After the first day or two he had NO accidents, none! ...at school.  Now, two months in, he has no accidents at school, ever. He has no accidents at grandma's, he has no accidents while we're out of the house. He is completely potty trained.... around anyone but us. Away form his parents he will go in the potty every single time. If he's with us? He goes in his pants. Every. Single. Time. There's not even a coincidental going in the potty.  I don't fight it, or argue anymore. I know he can do it. He's just torturing me because he can.  Ok, so he's potty trained, he can go to college no problem. He'll just pee in his pants while he's at home. Really, in the big scheme of things, it's not so bad. Plus, I'm still convinced he'll get sick of it, eventually. Right?


Disclaimer: you should wait for your child to be old enough to be ready to potty train before attempting this. If you're going to try this method you need to be prepared to clean up whatever comes out of your kid without getting mad. You can't put a lot of pressure on them, you can't punish them for getting it wrong.  I am of the opinion that there are very few moments in your child's development where making the wrong single choice could really scar them for life. Potty training is one of them though. Seriously, no one wants their kid to grow up with an unhealthy bathroom complex. The truth is if your kid doesn't have developmental problems, they won't go to kindergarden in diapers. They figure it out.  Forget all the mommy pressure, forget all the opinions that all kids should be potty trained by 2, or by 3, or whatever.  It's silly, it's part of the "mommy wars," and it's just designed to allow some mommies to feel superior to others. Kids figure it out. They do. They just figure it out quicker if you sick regular pants on them and they can get sick of being uncomfortable, sometimes. (And even then they still have accidents) 


I'll let you all know when my kid stops torturing us, and decides he'll go in the potty at home, instead of just out of the home. He knows how to do it, he just doesn't feel like it. It has to happen eventually. ....right?

"He doesn't leave it on the back deck anymore, we've got to check in here"

Oops

Wow, I’ve just realized it’s been nearly a year since I made a post. I have no excuse except that, I have two children, and no time. Or, maybe, by the time there is time my sanity has fled for the evening. These days I really check out at 5pm. I’m done. 12hrs is my maximin shift level apparently. After 12hrs I’m tapped out, and don’t really care what happens anymore. Trash my living room? Whatever. Don’t eat dinner? Whatever. No bath? Whatever. Want to play outside in shorts and flip flops when it’s 40 degrees out? Whatever. You’ll come in once you get cold. House on fire? Sure, whatever.

So putting together a blog post, or even sitting down to stare blankly at my computer screen trying to remember the funny, important, harrowing, events of my day? Forget it.




Plus, I’ve been exercising. So now, instead of sitting, or folding laundry, or cleaning my house, or doing the dishes, or typing, I go to the gym. I like the gym. There are no children there. In the long run it really means that I get less sleep. When it comes down to it, I eventually have to do all those things I’m putting on hold to go to the gym. I enjoy it though. It’s the one thing most days that I do just for me. So I give myself a pass.




So, expect more random blog entries. (you know, as opposed to daily ones... or weekly ones... or... whatever) As it turns out, I don’t have “spare time,” (I’m sure it’s a myth) I make time for everything that I do, and some time it’s just too hard to squeeze those extra minutes out of a day. Plus, really, I forgot I had a blog until one of my friends said, "this is so funny, you should write a blog." I was all, "I do have a blog... I think... I have a vague memory of a blog." So now that i've been reminded I have a blog I'm going to try and post more often. Even if it's not at all interesting.

Screaming at Socks

Sometimes having small children makes you want to scream. (Having older children might have the same effect, but I’ve never had older children, so I won’t comment.) And I don’t mean just the, “stop kicking the dog/hitting your sister/licking the door!” kind of screaming. I mean, full on, incoherent, being-attacked-by-killer-bees screaming. I’m talking sit down and have a full on two year old tantrum, screaming. That’s the kind of screaming I’m talking about. If you haven’t experienced that feeling then either your children are very young, or I greatly dislike you, and your genetically well behaved little children.

Sometimes this occurs because all of the children seem to be doing it. Who doesn’t want to fit in? Plus, there’s nothing like a whole world of dueling incoherent screaming to make one lose their mind, quickly. Did you know unpredictable noise is one of the biggest stressors? Neither do my children, apparently. That, or they’re working on some new sort of war time torture routine. Seriously, I’ll let the state department borrow my kids. They could make June Cleaver admit to the Kennedy assassination through pure volume.

Either way, the wanting to scream thing is pretty normal. At least around here. Today I was getting this urge. Not quite the killer-bees-are-attacking kind of screaming, but close. You know what set me off? Socks. Yup, socks. It’s not a typo. I’ve been working my way through folding eight laundry baskets full of clothes. Why are their eight laundry baskets full of clothes? you ask. Well, because I have bronchitis, I am the only one to wash, dry, carry, or fold any laundry, and I have small children. So shut up.

I have, literally, fifteen (FIFTEEN! 15!) socks. Fifteen socks that don’t match each other. Fifteen lonely, single, socks. I can’t match different color socks together. Can’t do it. Too OCD. So, I just end up with a pile of socks that I can’t match, or put away. They just sit there. Every time I do laundry I think, “this is it. This time I’m going to find the missing socks, and I can take at least one of these mismatched lonely socks off of my dresser.” But, no. It doesn’t happen. Instead, with each new load of laundry, I find more mismatched lonely socks. More socks of various colors with no friends to be found. More socks of differing lengths, differing patterns, more socks without a twin. And my pile grows.

Today, looking at my huge pile of mismatched socks I wanted to yell, “where the hell are all my kids socks going?!” It’s a reasonable question. I put in two matching socks, why don’t I get out two matching socks? So, after I have sorted, carried, washed, dried, hauled and folded eight loads of laundry I am still left with a pile of clothing I can’t do anything with. A pile of clothing that just sits, and takes up space, and collects dust, and makes me want to scream in the worst way.

So, if you’ve made it this far, you’re now asking yourself why this is the thing I choose to freak out about. Why this little, pointless, all together minor problem is eroding my cool. The answer is, it’s just one more thing. It’s always one more.

Today after I have survived my three year old son asking me (for the 5th time in as many days) if I’m proud of him for pooping in his underwear. (The answer is always,”no,” by the way) After my one year old screaming for two hours straight. After finding clothes to put them in, finding food to feed them, (x2 x3) after cleaning them, carrying them, driving them, hauling them, chasing them, reasoning with them, stepping on toys, stepping over toys, and being screamed at for all my effort all day long, I can’t even finish folding the damn laundry because the socks have run away. Even the socks are copping an attitude.

Bastards

No!

I was cleaning out the diaper genie and Demon ran by with a stinky diaper. So I told him we had to change it.

He says, "no."

I take the trash bag in his room and lay the towel on his bed (that's how we do his diapers) and tell him he needs to come lie on Mr Boat. (The towel has a boat on it)

He says, "no."

10 minutes into this argument Bug starts wailing. I tell him he has to get in his room and lie down so we can change his diaper because I have to feed Bug.

He says, "no."

I tell him if he makes me get up and come PUT him in his room he's staying in there by himself while I feed Bug.

He says, "no,"

I tell him he has until the count of 3 before I get up and then he's sitting in his room by himself.

He says, "no."

"1"
"No"
"2"
"No"
"3"
"No"

So I get up, pick his stinky butt up and put him in his room and go get Bug. He cries, "Mama! Mama."

I said, "are you ready to have your diaper changed?"

He says, "no"

So i feed Bug, and I wrestle Bug and I put Bug down for a nap. I have to walk by his room to do this. I ask if he's ready to have his diaper changed.

He says, "no. Lie down. Sleeping."

So the stubborn booger has decided he's going to BED at 4pm instead of letting me change his diaper that's full of poop.

He stayed in his room, from all appearances, happily playing, for an hour and a half until my husband got home from work. Then he let my husband change him. 

Sometimes I feel like I live in a deranged Dr. Seuss book. 

“You cannot change my poop today

You cannot clean my butt, no way!

I will not let you in a house

I will not let you for a mouse

I do not like clean diapers mom

I do not want to put one on.”

Oh look!

You ever have those days? You know the ones. The, "oh, hey, look, fossilized cheese! Awesome" days.  Come on now, you know you do.

RSV: Take Two

Obviously I haven’t had any time to update my blog in a very long time. At the moment, I have about six million things I should be doing, and at least one I’d like to be doing, but I find I’m driven to write instead. 

I pointed a friend at my RSV post the other day, and in the process, reread it.  I realized it ended prematurely.  My daughter did end up in the hospital, which is why I stopped posting to the blog.  Once something is stopped, it seems hard to pick up again. 

My last blog post was on a Thursday. The follow Sunday morning I slept in. My husband got up with the kids so I could catch up on some sleep. My daughter had gone to bed with a little cough, not promising with RSV in the house.  All morning long, while lying in bed, I kept be awoken by the sound of her coughing. Finally, at 10am, I thought, “I have to get up and take her to the ER.”  I thought my husband was going to frown at me and tell me I was overreacting. Not that he’s prone to that sort of thing, but I thought it was possible that I was overreacting. I got up, and walked into the living room, which is our children’s play area.  He looked at me and said, “you need to call the doctor for Bug.”  At this, my heart sank. I was hoping, having been mostly asleep, I was maybe exaggerating in my mind (understandably based on the previous week) how bad she really was.  Turns out, she wasn’t eating. 

So, I threw some clothes on, packed a diaper bag, expecting for her to be gone at least most of the day, and off to the ER we went. Again. 

This time, when they ran the RSV test it came back positive. She still really wasn’t eating. At the time she was four months old, and sleeping through the night. By my calculations that meant she’d eaten about six ounces since 9pm the night before. (We got to the ER at 11am)  The ER doctor, the same one who had treated Demon, and remembered us, decided to try a bottle of just Pedialyte. She said it was thinner and easier to get out of the bottle. The problem Bug was having was not that she didn’t WANT to eat, like Demon hadn’t, but that every time she tried to eat she’d start coughing so badly she couldn’t.  After a few attempts  she’d give up. Which is exactly what you don’t want a four month old baby to do. At that age they are still so little that they really shouldn’t go very long without eating. It lowers their blood super and they just have less and less energy. 

She did eat four ounces of Pedialyte, but it took her an entire hour, which was very unlike her. She had always been a good eater, and could suck down four ounces in fifteen minutes on a normal day. The doctor had a breathing specialist come in and give her a nebulizer treatment.  He was beyond impressed. She fell asleep about two minutes in.  He said he’s never seen a baby do that before, usually they scream the whole time.  I told him she was a very calm baby. I wondered though if it was that the treatment helped so much she could breath easier, or if she was just too exhausted from coughing and not eating to stay awake. 

The doctor decided, since she was still having so much trouble eating, they should give her IV fluids, and admit her overnight. It took us four hours to get a room. She said there were three babies in front of us, all being admitted with RSV. 

While we were waiting, they came down to start and IV on her. She cried, but otherwise was pretty good. This time I pointedly didn’t look at what they were doing, and did fine. She was a total trooper. 

Four hours after being told she was being admitted, we got a room. Our floor nurse came in to introduce herself and look Bug over. There is something disconcerting when someone has to put on hazard gear to touch your kid. Gown, booties, hat, mask. Really?  It makes sense. They have an entire floor of people, and they don’t want to spread a viral infection. It Doesn’t make it any easier to watch no one touching your kid without several layers in between them and her. 

So, it’s about 7/8pm now, and we’re facing a problem. My husband missed so many days of work in the previous two weeks, due to his illness, and our son’s many ER trips, that he can’t take off any more work. He needs the job, we need the money, but, more importantly at the moment, we need the health insurance!  After calling every one I can think of who may be able to watch Demon overnight, I’m at a loss and in tears. I don’t want to leave this tiny four month old in the hospital alone. My cousin did offer to take Demon overnight, and take him to daycare with her son in the morning. I was terrifies though that he’s infect the whole daycare.  The nurse came in again to talk about something. I told her I may not be able to stay overnight. She told me I couldn’t leave.  

I certainly didn’t want to leave my sick child in the hospital alone overnight. That was one of the last things I wanted to do. i also couldn’t leave my two year old alone all day, and I didn’t have anywhere to take him, and my husband couldn’t lose his job, or we couldn’t afford to have sick children in the hospital. The nurse told me they could check on her, every several hours, but they couldn’t really keep an eye on her, and, I know, they wouldn’t feed her.  So, I called my mom, who was very sick with our virus, and begged her to watch my two year old at 5am the next morning. She agreed. 

I got to spend the night in the hospital with my sick baby. I was relieved, and stressed out. I had spent many night in the hospital when my son was four weeks old. No sleeping happens there. Not for the parents. Plus, I didn’t have anything for the next morning, and I couldn’t leave to go pick anything up. One day I am going to learn to pack several changes of clothing every time I go to the ER, just in case. 

Mr Wampus came by that evening with Demon and dropped off some clothes. My darling boy was happy to see me,  but not very happy to be in a hospital. (The last time it hadn’t gone to well for him, and that kid has a memory like a steel trap)  They brought me some sweats to sleep in, and other small things, you know, like a toothbrush. They also brought me dinner, which was nice, even if it did come from a drive through window. 

The visited a little and then left. Demon cried all the way to the car. 

After a few hours (at this point I don’t even know, eight or ten hours) of IV antibiotics Bug started eating again. I swaddled her to she wouldn’t bump her IV, and realized that at some point in the last three months she had grown too big to be swaddled in the hospital blankets. We had a rather uneventful night. She slept some, I slept none. She ate a lot. We snuggled quite a bit. I was grateful that my phone had a kindle app on it and so I could read my book while she slept instead of staring at the wall. 

Monday morning I went downstairs and got myself coffee and muffins to take back upstairs with me.  A very nice woman from the Ronald McDonald house charities came by and brought Bug a mobile. It was a plastic version, with a big panda on the front. Bug spent most of the day smiling and cooing at the panda. Up until then she’s only cooed at mom and dad. 

Monday night, around seven of eight, they discharged her. It was uneventful, he case was very mild. (which I attribute to her vaccine)  Shortly before they discharged her she developed pink eye. Not surprising since everyone else in the house had already had it.  They gave us medicine for that, and sent us home. 

Bug continued to cough all week, but it didn’t seem to be getting worse, and it didn’t interfere with her eating. We did take her in for a recheck, and they said she looked good. 

The following Thursday night her pink eye came back. She had gross gooey drainage, and they were very red. I gave her the eyedrops again, but this time they didn’t seem to work. Her eye didn’t get worse on Friday, but it didn’t get any better either. It didn’t seem to bother her much.  Saturday morning I thought it was getting better, then that afternoon, it suddenly got much worse very quickly. I called the pediatrician’s after hours number, again. The on call doctor yelled at me for not brining her into the office that morning while they were open. He told me if the medicine wasn’t working she could have a secondary eye infection. He told me I had to take her to an Urgent Care, right now, and I had to take her to one that was good with small children. I was brave enough to ask which Urgent care he suggested for small children. 

Shortly after getting off the phone, Bug, Demon, Mr Wampus, and I packed into the car and headed out for the Urgent Care, which, luckily, wasn’t too far away.  They were also not busy, which was a big plus.

They saw her pretty quickly, and she was diagnosed with severe conjunctivitis, a massive ear infection (even though she had run no fever) and pneumonia. Really?  They gave us drops, and antibiotics, we had them filled on the way home. She was pretty happy for someone so sick. Four or Five days into the antibiotics they didn’t seem to be working. I took her into the pediatrician's office, Demon in tow. Her right ear was still infected, and her left ear was now massively infected. 

Remember the horrible, awful, painful, shot we had to do for Demon that took two nurses to administer simultaneously because it is so painful? Well, it was Bug’s turn.  Poor Demon. Those two nurses walked into the room and both snapped on their gloves and he had an instant panic attack. He started screaming and clawing at the examine room door. Even though I tried to reassure him, it wasn’t for him, he managed to pop the door open and went fleeing down the hall screaming. One of the nurses he ran by said that she would watch him. I could hear, as the door was closing, “Do you like stickers?” and I knew that he was in good hands. Bug weathered her shots well. There were tears, but they cleared up quickly. Demon was returned and we went home again. 

Bug improved, Demon was better. Eventually my husband and I improved too, as did my mother and grandfather who we’d made sick. My grandfather spent some time in the hospital for pneumonia, and I felt awful. He weather the storm as well, and was only there a day or two before he got to go home.