It’s not a road trip until someone throws up.
That’s the post I put on Facebook Sunday as we returned from Kid Two’s hockey tournament in Michigan.
At the time, it seemed like it would just be a funny story to add to the stories about the kids getting sick on trips: Do you remember the time Baby Three threw up in the car in the middle of nowhere in Michigan, and we stopped at that liquor store outside of Galesburg (MI) to clean her up? How when we got her out of the car, in 45 degree weather, it started to rain? How the lady who was working let us come in and use the employee-only washroom – and gave us as many plastic bags as we needed?
So far, so good.
And Baby Three made it the rest of the way home without incident.
But once we got here, she had diarrhea. Then she threw up again. And again.
There went work on Monday.
Monday morning, she got up to nurse – and threw up again, before she could. She nursed, and threw up again. A 6 a.m. call to the doctor – in hopes of getting an early appointment – resulted in being told to take her to the emergency room. One wet diaper in 12 hours was a lot too few.
So to the hospital we went. Spent about 20 minutes in the ER waiting room, and a while in the ER exam room waiting for a doc. The doc was calm, reassuring, but not happy that she hadn’t really peed in going on 14 hours. It was time for an IV.
The nurse who put it in – an Indian man who said he learned to put gauze under the tape so it wouldn’t pull on skin at the University of Bombay – couldn’t have been nicer, but he still earned Baby Three’s eternal dislike. He was concerned because with all the screaming, there were no tears.
They gave her about 200 mls of saline, then looked for urine. None. Three hundred more milliliters. Still nothing.
And in all the time in the hospital, no vomiting or diarrhea, either.
Then they stuck a urine collection bag to her groin, to make sure she wasn’t peeing at we were missing it, and started more saline.
Eventually, she did pee – a little in the bag, and more in my lap. Then she threw up, some in a towel, but more in my lap.
A quick check of the urine in the bag showed no serious problems, so they gave her some IV Zofran (anti-nausea medication) and sent us home with good news and bad news. The good news? She had a stomach bug that should not cause any more problems. The bad news? They only way we wouldn’t get it is if we had this particular version before.
Apparently, Big T did. But later Monday, Kid One, Kid Two and I were fighting for the bathroom. At one point, all three of us threw up within 15 minutes. I got to spend time Tuesday scrubbing out the bathtub and the high chair, both victims of diarrhea – and still managed to keep down tea and toast.
Now it’s Wednesday. Kid Two, who usually gets sick fast and gets over it fast, has already been back to school, and Kid One will be back tomorrow. Baby Three still has diarrhea, and will visit the pediatrician tomorrow. But she seems on the mend, having added bits of toast and banana back into her diet today, and being able to stay awake more than an hour at a time.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Saturday, December 18, 2010
O Christmas Tree
This holiday season has not been the most festive around our house.
My in-laws, who live downstairs, are both in a local rehab center. Their care has absorbed lots of time and energy. Money is tight, and the kids are busy, and just when am I supposed to make 12 batches of Christmas cookies? My days seem to consist of work, baby care and driving the big kids around.
So far, most of the Christmas decorations are still in their boxes in the basement.
But not the Christmas tree ornaments.
I was feeling very proud that we got our tree up a week earlier than usual this year. It, too, was a break from tradition; with my in-laws not home -- and our apartment more crowded with Baby Three on the scene -- we decided to just decorate one tree and set it up in my in-laws living room, where we will celebrate Christmas Eve and where the kids like to watch TV and play video games (they have a much bigger TV).
It was lovely, and with 12- and 10-year-old helpers, it only took a couple of hours to get all the ornaments on.
We have lots of ornaments.
Then, it only took a couple of days to topple over.
It did so all by itself, when no one was downstairs. Big T set it back up, more securely, I rehung the ornaments and we thought that was that.
Until it toppled over again, this time when Kid Two was playing a game downstairs. He came to get me and I wrestled it back up -- dropping it a couple of times in the process -- and started to rehang the ornaments. Then Baby Three woke up and I headed upstairs to nurse her. When I went back downstairs to check on Kid One, it was on the floor again.
I began to think it had the wrong holiday; Jesus fell three times on the way to Calvary.
Anyway, enough was enough. I stripped the ornaments and lights off and Big T went out to buy another tree -- one that isn't really bushy on one side and really bare on the other. (You'd think we would have seen the problem, which is compounded by hanging the ornaments on the bushy side, because that's where the branches are).
I guess that in at least one way this Christmas will be like last year's; we have to buy two trees. But at least Home Depot is giving us half off the second one.
My in-laws, who live downstairs, are both in a local rehab center. Their care has absorbed lots of time and energy. Money is tight, and the kids are busy, and just when am I supposed to make 12 batches of Christmas cookies? My days seem to consist of work, baby care and driving the big kids around.
So far, most of the Christmas decorations are still in their boxes in the basement.
But not the Christmas tree ornaments.
I was feeling very proud that we got our tree up a week earlier than usual this year. It, too, was a break from tradition; with my in-laws not home -- and our apartment more crowded with Baby Three on the scene -- we decided to just decorate one tree and set it up in my in-laws living room, where we will celebrate Christmas Eve and where the kids like to watch TV and play video games (they have a much bigger TV).
It was lovely, and with 12- and 10-year-old helpers, it only took a couple of hours to get all the ornaments on.
We have lots of ornaments.
Then, it only took a couple of days to topple over.
Until it toppled over again, this time when Kid Two was playing a game downstairs. He came to get me and I wrestled it back up -- dropping it a couple of times in the process -- and started to rehang the ornaments. Then Baby Three woke up and I headed upstairs to nurse her. When I went back downstairs to check on Kid One, it was on the floor again.
I began to think it had the wrong holiday; Jesus fell three times on the way to Calvary.
Anyway, enough was enough. I stripped the ornaments and lights off and Big T went out to buy another tree -- one that isn't really bushy on one side and really bare on the other. (You'd think we would have seen the problem, which is compounded by hanging the ornaments on the bushy side, because that's where the branches are).
I guess that in at least one way this Christmas will be like last year's; we have to buy two trees. But at least Home Depot is giving us half off the second one.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Why do boys do that?
Howard Cosell hasn’t been on the air for a very long time, but I still remember my brother imitating the iconic sportscaster’s voice as he called the play-by-play for any game in which he was involved – be it a pick-up football game in the backyard or an imaginary game that existed only in his mind.
As I grew up, I noticed the same tendency in most of my male friends and relations. The need to do sports commentary seems to come with the package a Y-chromosome brings.
And in Kid Two, this tendency is developed to a huge degree.
“Fourth and eight. This one doesn’t look like an easy conversion at all,” Kid Two just said, playing an NCAA football game. “First down! First down Northwestern!”
He seems to alternate between play-by-play and color commentary, and he has not compunction about being evenhanded; he’s a homer for whichever team he’s controlling.
But he doesn’t just call the games he’s playing on Wii or Playstation. He calls the game as he’s putting laundry in the hamper, the game in his head at hockey practice, the game as he fields grounders off the garage wall. He even calls the games he watches on TV, even though somebody else is already getting paid to do that job.
Last year, while waiting for hockey practice after dressing, he was watching a Blackhawks game on the lobby TV. And doing the play-by-play.
“Who is he talking to?” his coach asked.
Who knows?
But if ESPN is ever looking to expand its broadcasting stable, he’ll be ready to audition.
As I grew up, I noticed the same tendency in most of my male friends and relations. The need to do sports commentary seems to come with the package a Y-chromosome brings.
And in Kid Two, this tendency is developed to a huge degree.
“Fourth and eight. This one doesn’t look like an easy conversion at all,” Kid Two just said, playing an NCAA football game. “First down! First down Northwestern!”
He seems to alternate between play-by-play and color commentary, and he has not compunction about being evenhanded; he’s a homer for whichever team he’s controlling.
But he doesn’t just call the games he’s playing on Wii or Playstation. He calls the game as he’s putting laundry in the hamper, the game in his head at hockey practice, the game as he fields grounders off the garage wall. He even calls the games he watches on TV, even though somebody else is already getting paid to do that job.
Last year, while waiting for hockey practice after dressing, he was watching a Blackhawks game on the lobby TV. And doing the play-by-play.
“Who is he talking to?” his coach asked.
Who knows?
But if ESPN is ever looking to expand its broadcasting stable, he’ll be ready to audition.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Laundry day
It's laundry day.
Then again, it's laundry day every day, especially days I don't go to the office.
I suppose I shouldn't complain; for the last 18 years, Big T has been primarily responsible for the laundry, so I haven't had to deal with it much. And for much of that, his parents, who live downstairs, have lent a hand, throwing in a few loads if we left dirty clothes in the basement and folding what they took out of the dryer (to make room for their own laundry, or yet more of ours).
But laundry now seems harder than it was before. For one thing, there's more of it. A baby is small in sizxe but not in amount of laundry generated. Add the tween girl status of Kid One, and we have two major laundry generators. In the last year, I'd say we've gine from generating one load a day to two loads every three days (not counting bedding, etc.).
And with Tony's parents not able to look after Baby Three right now, even for a few minutes while a put a load in the washer, she needs to come with. I suppose I could leave her in the playpen (in the kitchen to keep her safely contained while I cook or wash dishes) but I don't like leaving her there when I'm out of the room. I can't leave her loose on the floor (on the second floor) when I'm in the basement -- even if she hasn't quite figured out the crawling thing, she does get around). So to take a load down when she's awake, I throw her in the basket or hamper with the dirty clothes and go bump-bump-bump backwards down the stairs. In the basement, she goes in her baby playstation (like a walker, but doesn't move). The dog usually joins us, and she tries to grab her as the dog walks by.
Once the laundry is in, it's back up the stairs to whatever we were doing. Folding and sorting takes place upstairs, with Baby Three playing on the floor usually.
It's not like Big T doesn't ever do laundry. He often puts in a load at night, and brings it up in the morning (because somehow that's always the load with uniform items).
But he thinks he's done when the laundry is clean and upstairs. Not folded, not sorted, and not put away. If I don't do that, it will sit in a basket in the living room or dining room for days. In fact, it often does. But I'm home more, so I'm trying to take care of that.
Even the days I'm home, though, the laundry really has to get done in the morning. By the afternoon, the day gets too busy. Last Friday, Baby T was in and out of the car nine times. Today looks much the same.
Then again, it's laundry day every day, especially days I don't go to the office.
I suppose I shouldn't complain; for the last 18 years, Big T has been primarily responsible for the laundry, so I haven't had to deal with it much. And for much of that, his parents, who live downstairs, have lent a hand, throwing in a few loads if we left dirty clothes in the basement and folding what they took out of the dryer (to make room for their own laundry, or yet more of ours).
But laundry now seems harder than it was before. For one thing, there's more of it. A baby is small in sizxe but not in amount of laundry generated. Add the tween girl status of Kid One, and we have two major laundry generators. In the last year, I'd say we've gine from generating one load a day to two loads every three days (not counting bedding, etc.).
And with Tony's parents not able to look after Baby Three right now, even for a few minutes while a put a load in the washer, she needs to come with. I suppose I could leave her in the playpen (in the kitchen to keep her safely contained while I cook or wash dishes) but I don't like leaving her there when I'm out of the room. I can't leave her loose on the floor (on the second floor) when I'm in the basement -- even if she hasn't quite figured out the crawling thing, she does get around). So to take a load down when she's awake, I throw her in the basket or hamper with the dirty clothes and go bump-bump-bump backwards down the stairs. In the basement, she goes in her baby playstation (like a walker, but doesn't move). The dog usually joins us, and she tries to grab her as the dog walks by.
Once the laundry is in, it's back up the stairs to whatever we were doing. Folding and sorting takes place upstairs, with Baby Three playing on the floor usually.
It's not like Big T doesn't ever do laundry. He often puts in a load at night, and brings it up in the morning (because somehow that's always the load with uniform items).
But he thinks he's done when the laundry is clean and upstairs. Not folded, not sorted, and not put away. If I don't do that, it will sit in a basket in the living room or dining room for days. In fact, it often does. But I'm home more, so I'm trying to take care of that.
Even the days I'm home, though, the laundry really has to get done in the morning. By the afternoon, the day gets too busy. Last Friday, Baby T was in and out of the car nine times. Today looks much the same.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Mom day
Today I am a mom. It's 11 a.m. and I haven't showered yet. I have fed three kids breakfast, nursed and had floor time with Baby T. I've shortened pants for Big T and sewn up the split seam in Kid Two's school sweatpants (using the nifty blanket stitch I learned as part of a fourth-grade art project). I've spent an hour picking up -- dirty socks from the floor to laundry hamper, books from every room back into Kid One's room, empty juice boxes from Kid One's room to the trash, six (I counted) pens and pencils from the floor to receptacles on the desk and kitchen counter. I could spend another hour without coming close to running out of things that need to be put back in place.
And for today, this is nice. But I'm glad I get to go to work some days (where I should spend an hour cleaning my desk, come to think of it), and I'm glad that most days at home I have other things to do. If I were a full-time mom, I like to think my house would be cleaner, but it probably wouldn't. The only way it would be cleaner is if I worked a lot more and hired someone to clean. Or maybe when the kids grow up and someone invents a dog that doesn't shed.
The reason they call magazines like "Real Simple" (which features a $500 pair of boots; that's simple?) aspirational is that they show things -- wardrobes, meals, home decorating -- the way we would like them to be. I know that's how they are for some people -- I've seen some lovely homes, even some inhabited by children. But I've seen more that look like mine.
So I'll go on being thankful that I can be home some days and work some days. It's kind of like living in Chicago where you get to enjoy all four seasons, occasionally all in one day. And I'm thankful for Phyllis, our godsend of a babysitter, who makes it easier to leave Baby T on the days I do work. And I'm thankful Baby T is still sleeping, so I can go take a shower.
And for today, this is nice. But I'm glad I get to go to work some days (where I should spend an hour cleaning my desk, come to think of it), and I'm glad that most days at home I have other things to do. If I were a full-time mom, I like to think my house would be cleaner, but it probably wouldn't. The only way it would be cleaner is if I worked a lot more and hired someone to clean. Or maybe when the kids grow up and someone invents a dog that doesn't shed.
The reason they call magazines like "Real Simple" (which features a $500 pair of boots; that's simple?) aspirational is that they show things -- wardrobes, meals, home decorating -- the way we would like them to be. I know that's how they are for some people -- I've seen some lovely homes, even some inhabited by children. But I've seen more that look like mine.
So I'll go on being thankful that I can be home some days and work some days. It's kind of like living in Chicago where you get to enjoy all four seasons, occasionally all in one day. And I'm thankful for Phyllis, our godsend of a babysitter, who makes it easier to leave Baby T on the days I do work. And I'm thankful Baby T is still sleeping, so I can go take a shower.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Transitions
We had some exciting news the other day ... Baby Three has a tooth! After what seemed like months of drooling and swollen gums, it pushed through on Sunday.
The next day I got up and dropped Kid One off at a South Side high school to spend the day shadowing a student, getting a glimpse of what high school life is like. Not that the vision is very real; I expect any school would choose those students likely to give a good impression to host middle school "shadows" and warn them to be on their best behavior. And the shadow day ended at 2:25 pm, with the end of the last period, well before I usually caused any trouble in my high school years.
Still, Kid One got to see a wider academic world than she has in elementary school, and she could imagine how she'd fit into that world. She will likely check out several other high schools before we choose.
In the meantime, Baby Three is fitting herself into our world, attending plays and hockey games and cross country meets and usually finding all of it a lot of fun. I hope that doesn't end as she becomes a toddler.
Truth be told, I wish she would stay a baby for a while. Watching Kid One and Two grow up, I have an idea of how fast it happens. We're already losing that toothless grin (for one that will be equally cute, but with teeth). Next thing you know, we'll be looking at high schools for her.
The next day I got up and dropped Kid One off at a South Side high school to spend the day shadowing a student, getting a glimpse of what high school life is like. Not that the vision is very real; I expect any school would choose those students likely to give a good impression to host middle school "shadows" and warn them to be on their best behavior. And the shadow day ended at 2:25 pm, with the end of the last period, well before I usually caused any trouble in my high school years.
Still, Kid One got to see a wider academic world than she has in elementary school, and she could imagine how she'd fit into that world. She will likely check out several other high schools before we choose.
In the meantime, Baby Three is fitting herself into our world, attending plays and hockey games and cross country meets and usually finding all of it a lot of fun. I hope that doesn't end as she becomes a toddler.
Truth be told, I wish she would stay a baby for a while. Watching Kid One and Two grow up, I have an idea of how fast it happens. We're already losing that toothless grin (for one that will be equally cute, but with teeth). Next thing you know, we'll be looking at high schools for her.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Forget me not
Forget me not
Have you ever heard the phrase “she’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know about (insert topic here)” whatever, as a way of saying how much someone knows?
I think I have. I forgot who said it.
I forget a lot of stuff these days.
I forget to blog (for almost a month).
I forget to bring the stuff I need. That might be something to do with how much stuff I have to bring with me. Keys, breast pump, various breast pump parts, wallet, did I mention keys?, insulin, glucose monitor … the list goes on. When I leave for work in the morning I’m schlepping enough stuff for a short expedition to the Himalayas.
I forget to leave home the stuff that needs to stay. Like the car seat, when Big T needs to take Baby Three to the sitter.
I forget to sign school papers, and if I don’t RSVP to a party invitation as soon as I get it, I often forget that too.
I forget who has heard which stories.
I forget the names of people I’ve just met, and those who I’ve known for a long time. They usually come to me sooner or later.
So far, I haven’t forgotten anything really important, like one of my kids. I might run late, but I always know where they are and that I have to get them.
Someone did a study about why middle-aged women (and I think they would include me in that group) are so forgetful. The hypothesis seemed to be that it was hormonal. Turns out that the brains of middle aged women are no more forgetful than anyone else’s. It’s just that they have too much to remember.
Add in the sleep deprivation that comes from three widely spaced children, and it’s a recipe for forgetfulness. So I’ll keep making calendar notes and reminder lists and looking and listening for clues to the identity of the person I’m talking to. And if I’m lucky, I’ll forget everything I’ve forgotten.
Have you ever heard the phrase “she’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know about (insert topic here)” whatever, as a way of saying how much someone knows?
I think I have. I forgot who said it.
I forget a lot of stuff these days.
I forget to blog (for almost a month).
I forget to bring the stuff I need. That might be something to do with how much stuff I have to bring with me. Keys, breast pump, various breast pump parts, wallet, did I mention keys?, insulin, glucose monitor … the list goes on. When I leave for work in the morning I’m schlepping enough stuff for a short expedition to the Himalayas.
I forget to leave home the stuff that needs to stay. Like the car seat, when Big T needs to take Baby Three to the sitter.
I forget to sign school papers, and if I don’t RSVP to a party invitation as soon as I get it, I often forget that too.
I forget who has heard which stories.
I forget the names of people I’ve just met, and those who I’ve known for a long time. They usually come to me sooner or later.
So far, I haven’t forgotten anything really important, like one of my kids. I might run late, but I always know where they are and that I have to get them.
Someone did a study about why middle-aged women (and I think they would include me in that group) are so forgetful. The hypothesis seemed to be that it was hormonal. Turns out that the brains of middle aged women are no more forgetful than anyone else’s. It’s just that they have too much to remember.
Add in the sleep deprivation that comes from three widely spaced children, and it’s a recipe for forgetfulness. So I’ll keep making calendar notes and reminder lists and looking and listening for clues to the identity of the person I’m talking to. And if I’m lucky, I’ll forget everything I’ve forgotten.
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