Friday, February 22, 2013

Fluke? None such luck.

Let’s be honest, when referring to children, flukes rarely exist. But yesterday I acted oblivious to that certainty when Wyatt caught a stomach bug.  It all begin like this…

It was a calm, quiet afternoon. The kind you only get ever-so-often that promises that the winter will one day go away and spring is just around the corner

Wyatt had enjoyed playing on the deck, soaking up some much needed Vitamin D courtesy of the good ole' Sun. 

He settled contently into my lap, fading in and out of consciousness to the sound of Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood.  "You're special. Just. the way. you are."

As his heavy eyelids finally lowered, I sighed and settled in with my Kindle in my free hand and a hot cup of tea to my left.

Because let's face it: the bigger he gets, the less he wants to hold me. So these days, this is my mama motto:
We were 10 minutes or so into a lovely afternoon nap when Wyatt sat straight up and proceeded to hose the living room down in Exorcist-worth-vomit.  Linda Blair ain't got nothing on WL with a stomach bug.

We slowly waddled together to the bathroom, where I sat Wyatt down, clothes and all, into the tub and turned the water on. He was hysterical. {I can only imagine. What a way to wake up!} And I was a bit hysterical myself, turning around in circles trying to decide who I needed to clean up first-- him or me. Of course, in the end, I decided that the person with the most vomit should be cleaned up first. So I changed clothes. {Mamas are always the ones to get the brunt of the puke. The kids come out with a small splotch on their collar, right?}

Once I got him stripped down and sitting in warm bath water, he calmed down a bit, but he wasn't 100% until I brushed his teeth. Bless his heart.

It's funny. I'm sure my first reaction should've been: call mom! But instead, it was: let's facebook this catastrophe!

Honestly my mom's reaction to Wyatt being sick is always, "Take him to the emergency room!" She's not one for waiting around when it comes to grand-kids. 

I changed Wyatt's sippy cup to water {milk isn't as delicious on its way back up} and prayed that him throwing up his lunch was a fluke. Sometimes it's a fluke, right? {Every mother from here to the Mississippi just jointly rolled their eyes at me and scoffed. And I’m almost positive I just heard Ms. Kay shout with her fists in the air, “A real pioneer woman would know better!”}

I was pleasantly surprised to hear from a few friends that a stomach bug was indeed going around. This was just about the time Wyatt regurgitated his water back up. Great.

Colt got home a little bit later and tried to coddle W, but he just wanted his Mama. Which I thought was great. We got comfy in the the hubs’ chair and read half-way through The Cat in the Hat book before Wyatt’s eyes slammed shut again. He was tuckered out.

I was enjoying my cuddle time when the second wave hit. Who knew a breakfast that he had eaten 9 hours ago would be intact and ready to explode?

I changed clothes again.

Then I cleaned out the crevices of the hubs’ favorite chair.

Then I wished I had snagged a few bags of puke-chips from the school before I resigned. So handy.

Colt bathed Wyatt this time and climbed into our bed with him. I tried to give him my rain-slicker, but he thought that was “not funny and cruel, ASHLEY. He is SICK.”

Wha?! You mean I’ve been drenched in vomit twice today because he is SICK?! I had no clue. It was insensitive of me to suggest covering our bed in a plastic tarp. Excuuuuuuuse me.

Colt asked me for a puke bucket—and in that moment I remembered why I married this amazing man. He’s a thinker.

For the rest of the afternoon, while I ran to CVS for pedialyte, crackers, and cheerios, Colt sat in the bed with Wyatt and watched PBSKids while holding the puke bucket under Wyatt’s face. Sadly he dry-heaved for hours before finally succumbing to sleep around 8 o ‘clock.

I had put a call into his pediatrician’s office earlier in the afternoon to get any advice I could “from the professionals." Iola, the call-in nurse said I shouldn’t feed him for 8 hours and even after that she said no dairy for 72 hours. I thought that was a bit rash, but he woke up with diarrhea and a low grade fever, so I’m not taking any chances of making this little guy spew any more. He’s had enough.

As for how he’s doing today, he’s eating cheerios and drinking his Pedialyte like a champ, but his mood is horrible. As in: I keep getting looks like this one.

Tiny, angry baby.

Which I take as him trying to convey to me—“Why do you dare exist near me right now? Peasant.”

Hope everyone else is having a good week. If you’ve caught this bug, I can only reassure you that it doesn’t last long, but grab a bucket. Good luck!


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