Lessons from the Puke Zone

I bear the honor of being the first of my group of new moms to have experienced the joy that was PukeFest: Fall 06. I'll admit that I had no friggin’ clue about how to handle a vomiting infant. Do I feed him? Do I not feed him? What kinds of fluids can he have? Juice? Water? Breastmilk? None of the above? Well, let’s just say that I was painfully under prepared, but when the puke hit the fan (and the auto upholstery, and the floor, and my jeans), I learned a great deal in a short amount of time.

Why was I so ill-prepared? Eh, mostly because I just didn’t want to think about it. Yeah, that worked out great.

In case you’re wiser than I was and would like to gather a few pointers before the onset of your own little cherub’s puke-o-rama, here are some things that are worth remembering:

1. Upon retrieving vomiting infant from daycare/babysitter, joyfully accept any offer of towels or blankets for protecting your car’s interior. Do not cheerfully and optimistically suggest that the wee little burp rag that you keep in the glove compartment for wiping excess drool will suffice. Because it will not.


2. Keep the car seat user’s manual in an easy-to-find place. You will have to disassemble the contraption in order to wash the puke out of the cushion. That’s the easy part. You’ll also have to reassemble the son of a bitch and reinstall it in your vehicle if you ever plan to leave the House of Puke again. If your significant other is out of town for work and you successfully perform this entire task without help, you are to be promptly rewarded with a large bag of M & Ms to be eaten in lieu of a real dinner.


3. Car seat manufacturers may say that the cushion should not be machine-washed or dried. They lie.


4. Do not be fooled by the pleasant demeanor of child. A happy and playful tyke will, with no warning whatsoever, casually pause mid-pat-a-cake and hurl. Witnessing this phenomenon borders on the surreal.


5. If an infant is suffering from tummy troubles, do not administer food of any kind until you know without a shadow of a doubt that said food will not be immediately flung back to you in the form of Spoiled Milk-Sweet Potato-Stomach Acid Soup.


6. Pedialyte is worth every penny.


7. As is leather automobile upholstery.


8. As is ceramic tile flooring.


9. Don’t even try to give yourself or the baby a bath until s/he has gone a good 4 hours without spewing. Just accept the fact that you both smell like puke. You’ll get used to it after a while.


10. When the worst part of the bout has subsided and the kid is finally asleep, change your clothes, do a little laundry, and have a drink or five. You’ll need them.

Y'all aren't gonna believe this shit.

Yesterday, the air conditioner was fixed and cooling like the other side of my pillow by early afternoon. I spent the morning surfing and reading and organizing my home office space (which, of course, was not on my list of fun things to do, but the urge hit, so I went with it). When the repairmen finally waltzed their asses out my door, my several-hundreds-of-dollars-poorer self assessed the possibilites for the afternoon and decided that a jog in the park--without a stroller to push!--would be the best way to spend the afternoon. And after a quick shower, I'd go hunt down that pair of boots I've been wanting.

So that's what I did. The jog was sublime, and the shopping was fruitless, but enjoyable nonetheless. Until my cell phone rang. It was the Mr.

"Did you get the messages?"

"What messages?"

"Baby's throwing up at school."

"What? Why didn't they call ME?"

"I dunno, maybe they got the numbers mixed up."

And he went on to try to talk about it and all I could say was, "Shut UP! I'm on my way to get him.

Sure enough, they had the numbers mixed up and had tried to call me at work, where I was not, and at least I had gotten the message and there my baby was, naked except for a diaper playing happily on the floor of his classroom in between spells of hurling.

"Wesley (Al's friend--not his real name, BTW) has it too. They both have been puking together. Except Wesley has diarrhea too. He pooped in Mrs. Sherry's (again, not her real name) shoes."

Nice.

Because I am a dumb-dumb, I declined the offer of a blanket to protect my car, thinking that the burp rag that I had would suffice.

Heh.

Halfway home, from the backseat, I hear the unmistakeable sounds of burp, splash, pause, splash. No crying, no fussing, just cough, burp, splash, splash.

You wanna talk about being afraid to look? Once home, I opened Al's door to check out the damage. It was widespread.

The rest of the evening is a blur. There was a bath, a failed attempt to administer fluids and breastmilk which ended with my lap full of puke, the taking apart, cleaning, and reassembly of carseat (um, a degree in engineering would have been nice), and finally sleep (for the baby, that is--I did puke laundry and made lesson plans for a sub today). And thank God for the sister-in-law who innocently called and asked, "How's it going?" and then volunteered to run to the pharmacy for me to pick up some Pedialyte and my refill of birth control pills. Because doing this shit times two? Eh, no.

Free Day

Is it a bad sign when your air conditioner repairman has to call for reinforcements? And how bad a sign is it when he makes that call a mere 20 minutes into the repair?

I’m home today, and noone is sick. However, a couple of nights ago, our air conditioner decided that the band-aid that we applied in the spring just wasn’t enough, and that it was time to die. Well, not exactly die as in never to be revived again, but let’s just say that the large (read: $$$) repair that we’ve been putting off for several months must be done now. And this is Texas, where summer lasts from April through November, so living without a/c for another couple of months is not an option.

So, the repair is being done now. And it will probably take all day. So I prepared for a sub last night, took the Boy to school this morning, and am busy contemplating whether I should first lay my ass on the couch and watch some VH1 or do some mindless net-surfing. I think I’ll have some Golden Grahams while I decide (Golden Grahams have totally replaced Fruity Pebbles these days).

Just a couple of days ago, I mentioned to a coworker that I needed to take a personal day. I’d take Al to school, and just hang at home and piddle. I guess Someone was listening.

So, here I am, stuck at home. Maybe I’ll make some lesson plans for next week. Maybe I’ll watch some TV. Maybe I’ll catch up on my reading. Or maybe I’ll just take a nap.

The possibilities are endless.

Mood Swing Much?

Alrighty, drama's over. Basically, I just had to get over the first night. And now? Hunky-friggin-dory. Well, I still miss him tremendously, but compared to yesterday, 110% better.

I'm beginning to get a little taste of what other wives love about being alone for a few days. Once I dried my tears and had a bath (there's not much better than a bath for the blues, even when you have to bathe with a squirmy 8-month-old), I was able to see how this week might possibly be tolerable, enjoyable even.

First of all, the obvious. Um, am I the only one who notices that these are the first back-to-back posts I've managed in oh, a couple of light years? I actually have extra time, even with the solo feeding and bathing and diapering and general caregiving of the child. (Might this mean that the Mr. is high maintenance?)

Then, there's dinner. Cheese toast and Sunchips. M & Ms for dessert.

But the best part, and I almost hate to admit this, but the best part of all?

Bed-sprawling.


So, yeah. We're fine. Thank you all for passing the tissues and helping me feel better.

Blue

This one is for me. All me.



I am miserable.

The Mr. left this morning to work in another town about 5 hours away, and he'll be there until Friday. I miss him so much I can barely breathe. How do you do it, those of you who have significant others who travel often? And the wives and girlfriends of deployed soldiers? My God, how you survive is beyond me.

It hurts. It hurts to be without him here at home. Certainly, Al eases the heart-sickness, but in a way, his sweet smile--the same one as his papa's--tends to make me even sadder. How I wish I were better at this. How I wish I were one of those wives who love having the house to themselves, who love the space and the quiet.

He's in the middle of nowhere, and evidently, cellular service there sucks, because I can't get him on the phone. I'll wait until he calls from his motel, and then we'll chat, and we'll look at each other on the webcam, and I'll miss him even more.

I'm so sad.

I'm so pathetic.

In a way, this is good for me, though. I realize that I've been taking him for granted. Not so much with his help around the house and with Al--he helps me tremendously, he does, but the extra work is comfortingly distracting right now--but just having him around.

Also, I realize that I am lucky. I'm lucky to be married to someone whom I love and miss so much.

But these five four (oh, hell fucking yes, I'm counting) days are going to be utter misery.

Putting a Handle on It

Slowly, but surely, things are becoming manageable around here. There's been a great deal of snot and some coughing, all of it culminating in Baby's First Ear Infection (another milestone that the baby books tend to leave out). The upshot? With the help of some antibiotics, I think we've about got the whole thing licked and Al can be on his merry way and resume with his oh-so-busy social life.

The j. o. b. is going better, now that I've regained my teacher legs. Some years, I am surprised at how badly my feet hurt during the afternoons of the back-to-school days. Other years, my voice is tired. This year, neither of those have been too problematic (except for the day that I decided to break in my new kitten-heeled pointy toed slingbacks, but anyway), so life is pretty good.

And last week, I started what I hope will become a new habit. As soon as the baby was fed his dinner and the Mr. was home and settled in, I excused myself to the TV room for no less than 45 minutes to walk on the treadmill while I let Bravo TV suck my brains out. Then, I walked right past the two of them and headed to the bathroom to shower. For at least 15 minutes. With expensive shower gel. That right there, ladies and gentlemen, is one whole hour dedicated to me. And that one hour is crucial--crucial, I say--to the well-being of my little family.

Yep, I think we'll be able to handle this. Hey, I might even manage to write about it from time to time.

Rules, Shmules.

Long ago, someone somewhere wrote the rule that bloggers should never write about their dreams. Their sleeping dreams, that is. Because, really? Who cares what other people dream, right? Except, well, this is my site and I'll write about whatever I damned well please. And today, because I haven't anything else on my mind and because I've neglected this site for an entire week and because my sleep is so fragmented that these weird-ass dreams are all the rest I get, I'm writing about my dreams. My sleeping dreams.

Most people--at least most people that I've ever talked to--say that they've never or rarely had recurring dreams. I rarely have a dream that's not a part of my rotating nocturnal repertoire. In other words, almost all of my dreams fit neatly into one of several recurring themes.

Here's my nighttime REM playlist:

1. Filthy bathroom or lockerroom. In this one, I need to use the restroom or take a shower (think summer camp or a dorm with a community bath--I experienced both in real life), and the facilities are filthy. Noone else seems to mind or even notice, but I'm pretty repulsed. There are never doors on the stalls, either. I used to have this dream pretty regularly back when I was single, but I had it last night, too.
2. Moving into a new apartment. This one is relatively new--I've been dreaming it for about a year or so. I move from one apartment to another one in the same complex (again, a situation from my real-life past). Sometimes the apartment that I'm moving to is way cool, and sometimes it needs a lot of decorative work.
3. The apartment porch. The porch is one from the apartment where I lived in my single days. The plants are a bit overgrown and in need of care and the fence boards are leaning and in disrepair, so I'm attempting to tidy and fix it up.
   
4. Back-to-school. I'm either moving into a college dorm or beginning university classes, or beginning the school year as a teacher (often with my real-life coworkers in my old Jr. High).
   
5. That college class that I never attend. This one drives me bananas. I'm in college and I keep trying to remember to go to that pesky History class that I keep forgetting about. Next thing I know, it's time for finals, and I've yet to make one class appearance. I just hope I ace the test and manage to pass the course anyway. I had this dream several times a week when I was pregnant. Not too hard to figure that one out, huh?
6. Driving to I'm-not-sure-where-but-it's-always-the-same-place. There's this one turn that's a little tricky on the freeway. As soon as I come around that wide curve, I've got to exit to the right almost immediately. If I make the exit, it's cake from there. If not, I'll be a little lost, but I'll figure it out eventually. (The hell?)
   
7. Jogging/bicycling long-distance. I'm having this one pretty frequently these days. Sometimes it combines with #6, but it usually stands alone. I'm jogging or bicycling through my hometown or to my grandmother's house (500 miles away) or up and down the streets of a local neighborhood or who-knows-where. The other night? I bicycled to an auto repair shop and then to the church that I grew up in. Not surprisingly, I wake up tired after this one.

It's fun times in my head after dark, y'all.