Tuesday, January 17, 2017

internet karma strikes again.

I should know better than to write a post about our nine krillion doctor appointments. Especially when I'm whining about all those appointments, most of which are well-checks. And especially at a time when 20 million people are at imminent risk of having zero health insurance AT ALL.

But I did, and was rewarded with a long weekend (emphasis on the loooong) of Rowan and the Mysterious and Unpredictable Recurring Gastro Illness. I'd spare you the details, but then this post would just be a string of random photos, and also you'd run the grave risk of surviving your day without hearing all about some vomit, and what fun would that be?

The above picture was taken about 12 hours before the first...incident. It was Thursday, which is just an annoying day in general since we have no regularly scheduled morning activities, and since by Thursday we're both pretty sick of each other and everything in the house. Plus, it's been freezing outside, but there's no actual snow to play in, so we've been outside, like, none. Being the resourceful woman that I am, I decided to bust out the above activity (which, it turns out, I also did almost exactly two years ago). I figured it would keep her busy most of the afternoon, and then we'd be golden until bedtime.

Which we were.

But I didn't know I should have saved my energy for dealing with activities like this for the next few days. I SHOULD have known. Full moon, Friday the 13th, a recent blog post wherein I whined like an insufferable twat about all our doctor appointments...

Around three in the morning on Friday, Rowan called me into her room. She started doing this a couple times a night towards the end of this past summer, and it has been a BITCH of a habit to break. This time, she told me she had to pee, which is super rare for her in the night, but not unheard of. Then she called me back in about 20 minutes later and said she was coughing, so she needed water. We have a strict no-water-after-bedtime rule (instituted only after such privileges were heinously abused), so I denied her, and she started wailing and complaining that her tummy hurt. Honestly, I didn't think much of it. She has middle-of-the-night annoying episodes like this every once in a while. Plus, I was selfish and tired. I tucked her back in like the evil hydration-withholding witch that I am and went back to bed.

Aaaand was promptly called back in about five minutes later to find her sitting in a pile of vom. Which, of course, is gross for anyone to experience, but being pregnant just ratcheted the awesomeness factor WAY up for me. Luckily, it wasn't too gross (KIDDING, IT WAS MEXICAN QUINOA FROM THE NIGHT BEFORE AND I WANTED TO SET EVERYTHING ON FIRE TO MAKE THE SMELL DEPART MY NOSTRILS). Not only that, but as soon as I walked in - before I even had a chance to process what was happening - I could see that she was about to hurl again, so I plopped onto her bed -  you know, right in the pile - and caught the next round in my hands.

For those of you thinking you'd never do such a thing? Well, friends, these hands are my hands, these hands are your hands, and I can pretty much guarantee that if you ever have kids, you'll eventually be in a situation where your instincts guide you to catch some puke in your easily-washable hands, rather than deal with the aftermath of having a yarf-soaked bed or car seat or rug.

My poor girl. This is only Rowan's second time having "the throw-ups," as she calls them. She looked all tiny and miserable in her big bed while I scraped the first layer of spew off her sheets (note to self: order a waterproof mattress protector already, good lord). Then she perked up a little and said, "Last time I had the throw-ups, I got to watch A LOT of Daniel Tiger, right, Mommy?" Sweet baby, always finding the bright side. "Sure, honey bear," I said. "But it's still the middle of the night, so we're just going to clean up and go back to bed. We'll watch LOTS of Daniel Tiger in the morning, okay?" She was cool with that plan and fell right back to sleep after a quick sheet change (note to self: order an extra set of twin-sized sheets already, good lord), a baby wipe bath, and fresh jammies. 

I tossed a load of laundry in and went back to bed, too, but I never fell back asleep. Somewhere around five or so, she called me again, and I think I was in her room before she even finished the second syllable of "Mommy." She seemed fine, though, just awake for the day, and we ended up snuggling and giggling until a little after six. Then, suddenly, she got super quiet and sat up straight. "Rowie, do you have some throw up coming?" I asked. "Yessss," she said, and hurl she did - but all in the trash can I had at the ready! Woooo! Talk about underrated parenting milestones.

After cleaning up Round Two, we set up camp on the couch and ended up watching hours of Daniel Tiger, as promised.

She didn't barf again that day or that night OR the next day, so I figured we were in the clear. On Saturday night, I had the best sleep I've had since the summer, no joke. Between Rowan's nighttime wake-up habit and frequent pregnancy-related wakings, I haven't slept through the night - like, the entire night, without even checking the time or thinking about having to pee - in recent memory. But I did on Saturday. In fact, I was sleeping so deeply that I didn't hear Rowan call for me a couple times between five and six on Sunday morning. J.J. heard her, but he said it didn't sound urgent and she quieted down right away both times, so he figured it was all good.

It was not all good. She called again close to seven, at which point J.J. went to get her, which finally woke me up. I went in, too, and she said she had to pee. I took her to the bathroom. She was in a great mood, and we chatted about what kind of cookie she was going to eat as a reward for sleeping all night without calling me unnecessarily (because yeah we stooped to bribery, and you know what, it freaking works or at least some of the time so you hush right up). Then we went back to her bedroom, where all of a sudden she collapsed on the carpet and started wailing. "What's the matter, honey?" I asked, not sure if I should be annoyed (at her tantrumming over something unknown and probably ridiculous) or concerned (at her level of upset). Just to be safe: "Rowan? Do you need to throw up?" "Yeahhhh!" she moaned. 

And so I scooped her off the rug (practicality first!) and deposited her on the wooden hallway floor, snatched the trash can from our room, and thrust it under her chin just in the nick of time. (This time, it was pesto pasta that somehow looked and smelled exactly like the burrito bowl with queso that I sometimes get at Qdoba but will never even think about again except to write it here in this blog right now). 

Thus, another day of Daniel Tiger and movies.

J.J. was a good parent and actually got her involved in a few activities during the day, including her current favorite board game, Hoot Owl Hoot. It's a cooperative game and it's super cute, even though it goes against my every instinct to beat everyone I'm playing with, including my preschool-aged daughter.

She didn't barf again all day Sunday or during that night, so I thought - THOUGHT - we were in the clear to go to an indoor play place on Monday morning, more than 24 hours since her final retch sesh. She had a great time pretending to be Rey from Star Wars and flying a space ship at Kidopolis in Ann Arbor:

She also tried on various masks and dresses, played with fire hoses and toy phones, and generally spread her germs on EVERY SINGLE SURFACE in the joint before going home, eating lunch, and refusing to nap. Refusing, as it turns out, because her stomach was roiling once again.

The next six hours were spent pretty much toilet-side for me, while I explained what "diarrhea" was to my three-year-old, who was quite concerned that something vile was exiting her body that had the word "die" in it. Once again at bedtime, I lined her mattress and floor with towels, and I actually put a diaper on her for the night at my sister-in-law's genius suggestion. That way, if we didn't quite make it to the potty in time overnight, we wouldn't have such a mess to clean up. Or, at least, the mess would be contained. 

I really thought I was in for a night of frequent toilet trips with Rowan, given that she'd felt the urge every five to 10 minutes since two that afternoon. Thankfully, though, the lack of nap and the rough afternoon wore her out enough that her body let her rest for the night. She woke up this morning cheerful and thrilled that we were having a random January thunderstorm, and she shared her theories of electrical conductivity with me. (She actively opposes my assertion that her yellow lamp is not exclusively powered by lightning, claiming that, "The electricity in lightning is the same electricity in our lights. The lightning gets sucked up into a pole, and then it slides down the pole and turns into lights and goes into our house!" With that kind of knowledge, she's probably overqualified to be Trump's Energy Secretary. Maybe just a consultant?)

I did NOT take her public this morning, having learned my lesson yesterday. Instead we...wait for it...

...watched some MORE TV (she's moved on from Daniel Tiger to Curious George over the course of the last few days). To be fair, she also played in her sensory table...

...and practiced using the edge of our kitchen stair as a balance beam, complete with pole-dancing interludes.

She's napping now, and I am crossing my damn fingers that the plague has left us. I've never been so grateful for (1) on-site laundry and (2) bleach wipes. Oh, and, you know, the fact that my family is not in danger of losing our health insurance simply because certain politicians are more interested in dismantling an imperfect program for the sake of making a statement than they are in coming up with an alternative plan to replace the imperfect plan before cutting off TWENTY MILLION PEOPLE from health care, which will actually, LITERALLY kill some of them. To those politicians, I say, I hope you catch Qdoba-scented vomit with your face, and that it makes you sick, and that you are forced to recognize how important it is to have access to medical care.

And that's part of why we'll march this weekend. Still choosing between Lansing, Ypsilanti, Ann Arbor, and staying home to avoid the super weird contractions I've been getting whenever I exert myself physically, but the plan is to march. Also, to stay healthy in the meantime.

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