Holiday Rant

December 30, 2015 / Wanda / 8 Comments

It’s been a rough week around here. My family had a nice Christmas, and I’m thankful for that. But for everything else that has happened in the past ten days or so…well, all I can say about that is, “Hey world, go fuck yourself.”

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

The entire week of Christmas my son was terribly sick with RSV. For those of you who don’t have young kids, that’s a nasty respiratory virus that likes to linger and can often cause hospitalizations. Bryce didn’t need to go to the hospital, but he did require round the clock breathing treatments and he had a fever for six days. We were pretty much house bound the entire week of Christmas. My husband and I started coming down with symptoms on Christmas day. It only makes sense given how Bryce repeatedly coughed in our faces while we were caring for him. He can’t help it. He’s five. The upside to this was that during our quarantine, we binge watched all the Star Wars movies and all eight Harry Potter movies.

We then had to cancel our holiday travel plans due to the respiratory virus that began sweeping its way through our house. Our relatives thanked us for not exposing them to our hateful contagion.

Two days after Christmas, while this virus was happily laying waste to my holiday cheer and energy levels, I got on Facebook and found that the world had turned itself upside down. You know those moments in life where your reality sort of tips over and sends you free-falling? Two days after Christmas I discovered that an old friend whom I had known for more than twenty-five years had passed away. We went to high school together and we kept in touch mostly through Facebook. I know many people wouldn’t call that friendship, but I went to a small school, and many of us keep in touch with each other through this medium. We post pictures of our kids and laugh with each other over the trials of parenting. Well, this friend was a beautiful human being. She radiated sunshine and light. She was 40 years old and a mother of five beautiful children. And, as it turns out, most of us didn’t know she was suffering. I had no idea she suffered from depression. I think most of us didn’t know. She was always happy smiles and kind words, always giving of herself to help others. She was a great mom and the kind of parent you sometimes envied. You know, the one who seems to find the time to make everything from scratch and still look beautiful and like she totally has everything together. The day after Christmas she took her own life. My heart is broken for her family. For her children. I can’t even imagine the emotional pain she must have been suffering to make that choice. To feel like that was the only option left to her. Depression is a dirty, rotten, lying mother-fucker and it has claimed another beautiful soul.

Yesterday, my husband called our plumber out to the house because he noticed our hot-water heater was leaking. Well, not only does the water heater need to be replaced, but unbeknownst to us, it had been leaking for a while, and we discovered black mold growing inside the wall and under the flooring. We had a crew working all day yesterday, ripping out moldy drywall, wood boards and flooring. We had no idea it was inside the wall. I now have an industrial size de-humidifier in my house that sounds like a damn jet engine. And because of the holiday and drying out/treatment process, nothing can be done for about five more days. Half of my garage is tented off and part of the stairwell inside as well. The noise from the de-humidifier is deafening, and I have no hot water for the next week or so. I know, first world problems. Blah, blah, blah.

Last night, I went to urgent care to deal with this respiratory virus that seems to be getting worse. My lungs feel like they’re on fire and my throat feels like I’ve been swallowing glass. The doctor at the urgent care was super hot. (Huge sigh, accompanied by an eye roll.) I look like death warmed over and I’ve got that awesome bright red ring around my nose that’s all chapped and painful. I accidentally coughed in his face. I’m sure he gets that a lot. Whatever. He says I have bronchitis. He gave me good drugs, so I’m thankful for hot doctor.

Today, after not sleeping much and dreaming about friends lost, I was woken up at the crack of dawn by the sounds of the moldy men crew using electric saws to cut apart my walls, once again. After they left, my husband left for San Diego. He’s going to the Holiday Bowl with his best friend. While I’m home…sick…with two kids…all the pets…in a house that sounds like it’s sitting on an airport runway. He’ll be home tomorrow. He’s staying with his friend in San Diego tonight because it’s a night game. That means he’ll get a hot shower tomorrow before he comes home. I can’t shower. Because there is no hot water. For a week. I think I hate him a little bit right now, but it’s not really his fault. But I’m going to act like it is because I need someone to blame. I know, it’s the bronchitis talking.

This past week has really kicked the shit out of me. I’m exhausted, physically and emotionally. So instead of writing a Happy New Year post filled with bullshit optimistic resolutions, I’m just going to be thankful for my life. I’m thankful for my family, my recovering health (Yay for drugs!), that I have a house and the resources to fix what’s broken. I’m thankful for my friends, both real and imagined (that means you WordPress!). I’m thankful for hot doctors and urgent care centers. I’m thankful for pharmacies, pizza delivery guys, Advil, coffee and that box of homemade fudge my neighbor brought over. I’m thankful for endless boxes of tissues and Carmex ointment to put on my chapped nose. And lastly, I’m thankful for the heart that beats in my chest. The heart that fills with joy at the sight of my family and also breaks with sadness at the loss of a friend. I’m thankful for my ability to feel and love and grow from the hard things in life.

Happy New Year, world. Wherever you are, may your New Year be filled with light and love.

Cheers,

Wanda

My Sick Boy.

August 5, 2015 / Wanda / 6 Comments

That moment, when you reach across the bed and feel his forehead, praying that the heat has left his little body in peace…

Bryce has been sick with a nasty virus for the past week. We’ve battled six days of high fever and other bodily functions I’m sure you’d rather I not go into detail about. Well, that’s too damn bad cause I’m totally going into detail about it. The kid has had diarrhea like an arterial spray. I’ll let that visual sink in for a moment. You’re welcome.

My kids are both very healthy. They only get sick once or twice a year, but when they do get sick, it’s serious. It’s a knock you on your ass for a week kind of sick. Their bodies hold onto infection like a fucking grudge. It’s horrible and scary. When you’re holding your child while their body feels like it’s on fire with heat, you can’t help but be terrified for them. They get that glazed look in their eyes, and when they talk, half the time it’s delirious gibberish.

I took Bryce to the doctor on day five of the fever and she told me it was a virus going around that was lasting 7-10 days. She said his fever shouldn’t last for more than five days. I explained to her that we were already at day five, as Bryce lay in my arms burning up at 103 degrees. She reprimanded me for allowing him to have dairy products. I explained that I was giving him whatever he wanted to eat because he had no interest in food and had already lost two pounds in five days. She scowled at me. I scowled back. She is not my regular pediatrician. (She was correct though. I shouldn’t have allowed him to eat yogurt and milk.) Then Bryce had a meltdown in the office when the nurse tried to give him a dose of Tylenol. With tears in his eyes and a hot pink flush to his face he explained that their Tylenol was different than our Tylenol, and he preferred to wait until we got home and take our Tylenol. He said their Tylenol was yucky because it wasn’t the right color. I eventually got him to take it, but with the last sip he gagged and then regurgitated a large portion of the dose back at me. I carried him to the car, both of us splattered with Tylenol vomit. Good times.

For six days I monitored his temp, coaxed him to take medicine to reduce his fever and slept with him so I could feel his body and watch his breathing. I held cold packs to his back, forehead, stomach and legs. He would look at me with glassy eyes and say, “Am I still your little fireball, mommy?” It was the kind of fever that could have killed your child before the days of modern medicine. Thank God for modern medicine.

Finally, this morning, as I reached for Bryce’s forehead next to me on the pillow, I felt it. That cool, dewy ring of sweat around his head on the pillow. The gross, disgusting, beautiful ring of sweat that indicates his fever has broken. His little body was so quiet and deep in sleep, which was a blissful change from the constant moaning, rocking and shivering from the past six days.

I’m exhausted. I’m relieved. I can’t wait to get the hell out of this house. I need to drink wine on the beach and watch the sunset with my beautiful kids and my husband. I need to take him to the park and watch him run, and climb, and laugh, and play. I need to see him smile with excitement, health, and joy. That’s all I need. 🙂

Good morning!

July 7, 2015 / Wanda / 2 Comments

That moment, in the early hours of the morning, when it’s still dark outside, and your kid, who managed to wiggle their way into your bed in the middle of the night, suddenly sits up and declares with panic in his voice, “My tummy hurts.”

Nooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!

You bolt awake, adrenaline filling your system as you grab your child, and run as fast as you can to the bathroom before Mount Vesuvius erupts in the middle of your bed. You just changed the sheets and a bed full of vomit is not something you want to deal with at 5am.

An hour later, after cuddling him through the stomach cramps, wiping his tears of fear, rubbing his back, administering Sprite, Tums, and a few Saltine crackers to get something in his stomach to absorb the acid, he looks at you and says, “I guess I just had to fart a couple of times, mommy. I’m ok.”

So, yeah. Good morning.

Wanda Says…I’ve touched poop with my bare hands.

November 24, 2014 / Wanda / 16 Comments

I’ve done a lot of disgusting, undesirable things since becoming a mom.

For example, at various times and for various reasons I’ve caught both of my kid’s pee, poop, and vomit with my bare hands. This was usually in an attempt to redirect the flow or minimize the splash zone.

I’ve sniffed butts, armpits, underwear, diapers, and feet to determine the source of offensive odors. You know you’re a parent when you have no qualms, whatsoever, about picking up your small child and smelling their ass in public to determine if he or she has a poopy diaper.

When Bryn was three years old, she crawled into bed with me, woke me up and told me she had an upset stomach. I laid her down with me and began to rub her tummy while questioning her about her symptoms. Before I knew what was coming, she sat up and threw up all over both of us in the middle of my bed. It was everywhere. She was hysterical and we were both covered in vomit.

What? It’s just a little pee!

When my son was an infant he shot a stream of his pee into my open mouth when I was changing his diaper. With baby boys you can never let your guard down while changing diapers. You have to be focused and quick to avoid disaster. He was laying on his back on the changing table and I was talking to my husband. His timing was perfect. I was distracted while doing two things at once, and his pee shot straight up into my face as I turned my head and opened my mouth to talk. Believe me when I say that was a startling, gag-worthy experience, and one I hope never to repeat, ever.

Another time while at Disneyland with the kids, I was holding Bryce on my hip while waiting in line to meet Mickey Mouse. He was two and not yet potty trained. He peed and pooped in his pull-up at the same time, and the two substances mixed to form a watery concoction that leaked all over my clothes from my waist down to my thighs. I had extra clothes for him and was able to buy a new shirt for myself at the gift shop, but was at a loss to replace my jeans. I smelled like I had the Hershey squirts for the rest of the day, and I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

When my daughter was five we were in the bathroom at Midway Airport in Chicago, Illinois. Midway is a pretty nice airport, and their bathrooms are actually nicer than most, but when you have hundreds of people moving through them everyday they just can’t be that clean. Well, after using the facilities, my daughter accidentally dropped her favorite stuffed animal, a little orange cat named Spooky, into the airport bathroom toilet. We both froze. And then, without thinking, I did what any self-respecting, child loving woman with a Mom Card would do…I reached my hand into that Godforsaken pee-germ bowl of bacteria and I saved Spooky. I rinsed him in the sink of the bathroom, wrapped him in a roll of paper towels, and then asked the cleaning woman in the restroom to pour straight bleach on my hands. When we arrived at our hotel, I soaked Spooky in hot water and shampoo (it was the only soap I had). Bryn was sad that I wouldn’t allow her to snuggle Spooky after his traumatic nearly-flushed down the toilet ordeal, but she understood that he needed to be thoroughly decontaminated first. After arriving home at the end of our vacation, I put Spooky through a hot water cycle in the washing machine and high heat dryer before he found his way back into Bryn’s arms.

What I find noteworthy about these foul experiences with my children is how becoming a parent changes your reaction to them. Instead of becoming physically ill myself after being thrown up on, or grossed out by the ordeal, my first thought is of my child’s comfort, fear and how to make it better for them. Instinctually, my own needs become secondary to theirs. I will walk around Disneyland with my son’s poop on my jeans, and not make a federal case of it so he doesn’t feel shame. I will bathe and wash my daughter’s hair before I wash her vomit out of my own hair so she will know her health and comfort are more important to me than a little (a lot) of throw up. I will stick my hand in a disgusting airport bathroom toilet to save a beloved stuffed animal before I will allow my daughter to suffer that loss.