Another blog from days gone by. But, since I just posted about the flu AND I'm presently trying to lose some weight, it seemed relevant. After re-reading it, I've decided to go lick some germ infested shopping cart handles. Because hitting my goal weight in 7-10 seems way more attractive than counting calories.
==================
January 19, 2007
The stomach flu blows...no pun intended.
Last week we were
preparing for Ryan's 6th birthday. He was very excited about taking a
special snack to school (Oreos and milk, yum!) and then having his
birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese afterward. We were making big plans,
shopped for all the goodies for the goody bags, picked out the cake, the
whole nine yards. It was a very exciting time. He was, after all,
graduating from one whole hand to a hand plus. We had talked about all
the fabulous things that 5 had brought our way...reading, math, tying
shoes, bike riding, Kindergarten, swimming, etc. Five has been a big
year for us. And, it's our last 5. I've said it before, 5 is magic.
There is nothing quite like 5 and, although we were sad to see it go, we
were very excited for 6...all day school, taking the training wheels
off, and all the other new things he will learn (hahaha he just came
into the office and asked me, "Mom, after nighttime is over and you're
done sleeping, do all your calories go away and you start over?" I
wish.).
So, we're all excited about his birthday and we go to bed
with visions of Chuck E. Cheese and bad pizza in our heads, when I
awake to a mysterious whimper and leap from my bed to see what's the
matter. As I am making my way to the bathroom, where I expect to find
Ryan trying to find his way there, too, without peeing his pants, I step
in... something. My first thought is that the cat, being as ancient as
she is, has somehow not made it to the bathroom catbox in the night and
has just peed on the floor. I could only hope to be so lucky. For,
there, in the bathroom, is my baby, on the brink of turning 6, heaving
his guts out. So, now, I'm faced with the dilemma that generally only
mothers deal with: child throwing up in the toilet to console...child's
puke on my feet...child's puke all over the floor in doorway blocking
access to or from said room...likely chance that there is more puke
somewhere else. Which to deal with first???
I chose a
combination approach. As I'm trying to soothe him with my words, I peel
my socks off (thank goodness my feet were cold when I went to bed; 100%
cotton socks do a great job of absorbing as well as keeping the chunks
of mostly digested fries from between my toes!) and then carefully move
him to sitting on the side of the tub once he's finished. Whew, two
down. As I'm getting him a washcloth, which I later use to clean the
floor (multi-tasking!), I ask if he threw up in his bed at all or if he
was able to make it almost to the bathroom. He tells me he didn't throw
up in bed. I hear a host of demons burst into laughter at this so I
assume it's worth checking out the bed, at least once I have the floor
cleaned up enough that I can get there.
Now, there are some
real advantages to having laminate flooring in one's home. Cleanup is
one of them. Soooo much easier and quicker than carpet. However...when a
person, even a small, nearly 6 person, just leans forward a bit and
throws up on it, it splatters to the ends of the earth. Guh-ross and
guh-narly is all I have to say about that.
Cleanup finished, I
make my way into the bedroom to check on the bed. It's basically a crap
shoot here because Alex is still sleeping so I can't really just turn
the light on and do a thorough check. I've got the hall light on and am
trying to stay out of the beam of light that it casts in the room. I
feel the mattress. Dry! Ha ha, evil minions! My young prince has been
triumphant! I grab the comforter to adjust the blankets before I bring
him in to lay down again and the shrieks of glee rise around me once
again. No, he didn't throw up in his bed. On the comforter, yes; but
in the bed, no. Heavy sigh (only after the initial "Eeeww!!!"). I
clean myself up...again, and I go back in for the sleeping bag.
I
get the muffin set up on the floor of my room and return to his for the
comforter. God must have been with me on this trip because the light
from His glory illuminated the other TWO places where my sweet prince
had NOT been triumphant. Once again, no, he hadn't thrown up IN bed,
BUT he had thrown up on the floor next to the bed and onto a stuffed
animal and a pair of his brother's shorts as well as throwing up next to
the dresser on his way out of the room. Uhhh...an hour later and I was
finally finished. 20 minutes after that, we were racing to the
bathroom again, thankfully, for the last time, though.
So, no
school for Mr. Man on his big day. No party. It was a bummer. We
postponed the party to yesterday, though, and it turned out
wonderfully. We spent his birthday on the couch, looking at books and
watching movies. Maybe the kind of day we were supposed to have
anyway. Me and Mr. Man, snuggled on the couch while we moved from 5 to
6.
We've been lucky so far. I'm the only other one in the house
who has been fortunate enough to experience this stomach flu. If I had
to get it, though, I was confident in the knowledge that it would last
for about an hour and a half and then I would sleep a lot and feel
better. No such luck. Seven straight hours of being in the bathroom
every 20-30 minutes will really take a lot out of you (not that you have
any IN you anymore, but...). I spent the next two days in bed, the
first of which I was in a self-induced Vicodin coma, which, by the by,
is not a bad way to spend a day. I lost a total of 5 pounds; 4 of them
in those first 7 hours. I broke through the weight plateau I've been at
for the last 9 months. If I can exist on Saltines and gingerale I just
may be able to keep it off.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Cold Med Warning
It's cold and flu season and I haven't written a blog in nearly a year, so I thought, "What better time to NOT write another blog but simply copy one from a million (7) years ago?" So, here ya go! I'm not sure if the product in question is even still on the shelves. I've avoided buying it for a million (7) years. A smattering of time for the evilness that this product wrought one long ago night. In any case, enjoy the read and stay healthy, my friends!
====================
March 23, 2006
So, I have 2 out of my 3 children at home sick right now. We've been battling ugly chest congestion, stuffy noses and fevers in the range of 102.2. It's been a real treat that has me practically bathing in Lysol in hopes of not getting it myself.
Nights have been particularly hard since it becomes rather difficult to breathe when one is not constantly yacking up the truly heinous stuff that is invading one's lungs. Being the good mommy that I am, I, of course, sought a solution. Giant jars of Vicks to slather on a rag and tie around my kids' necks? No. An old yucky T-shirt to designate as the "Vicks Shirt" that gets coated in the stuff. No. Don't want to hassle with the vaporizer (plus, they sleep in two different rooms); can't use those plug-in thingy-s because the brainiac that wired our house only put outlets in the places where one would obviously have to put furniture so none are accessible enough. No, I go the obvious, no mess, so-easy-to-use route. I go out and purchase the little menthol patches that just stick right to your kids' chest and allows them to breathe easy all night long. This particular product is put out by Triaminic. The cartoon pic of the little boy on the front is so cute and he looks so happy to be able to breathe with his little patch on. The box comes with 6 patches AND a sheet of stickers. BONUS!!
So, bedtime comes last night and I dope up my kids with the appropriate multi-function liquids and pull out the box of magic patches. Aren't they cool, I muse to the children? We ooh and ahh over how clever they are and how you can smell them right away. See, they're already working! We find all the appropriate jammies so that the patch can really emit all the soothing vapors that it can and I kiss my babies' fever-ridden foreheads and send them off to a good night's sleep. In the morning they will be just as cute as cartoon boy on the box! Yippee; score one for mommy!
Fast forward 3.5 hours. My oldest comes and wakes me asking if he can take the patch off. He's breathing OK and it's beginning to hurt. Hurt? Yes, it's burning and stinging. "Yes, yes, take it off if you feel better but put it on a piece of paper or something near your bed so you can still smell it a little," I slur through my sleep. He leaves and, as I'm drifting back into sleep, my groggy mind floats to the 4 year old who is wearing the other patch. I conclude, through my fog, that I should get up and check to make sure he is OK, too, but I apparently fall back asleep while deciding this. Instead, I'm awoken by said child who is in tears, standing by my bedside, begging me to take the burning thing off of him. Yes, yes, yes, I say in a panic and shoot straight up in bed. **Now, one would think that the burning part is the bad part. One might be correct in this assumption but there's one more challenge ahead** I reach out to grasp the patch that is adhered to my hairless, pink, feverish, baby skinned boy and begin to peel up the corner when he shrieks like a rabbit being skinned alive (if you've ever heard that sound before, as I have, it is NOT a sound you want to hear at any time of day, much less at around 1 something in the morning). Oh, yes, that's right; I am, in effect, ripping an enormous band-aid off my child's chest. My husband says, "Just rip it off!" "Off his CHEST?" I hiss. "I'm just kidding," replies DH. His timing is incredible.
So, I peel said fire patch from my dear boy's virgin skin and then hug him close. Good thing those patches came with a sheet of stickers. They will come in handy tomorrow when trying to distract my children from the raw rectangular marks on their chests. Come here, I say, as I start to lift him to my lap for a more appropriately soothing mommy cuddle. AS I'M LIFTING HIM AND JUST SETTING HIM ON MY LAP, he says, "But my clothes are wet," which I feel on my bare thigh at the same moment in time. I quickly right him to his feet once again and ask why. "I had to go a little and I had an accident." The poor lamb. He's been overcome by the burning on his chest and being in a state of panic while still pretty much asleep and tinkled a bit. If only it were that easy. Oh, no. Not my boy, the reigning prince of understatements. This child has completely peed. COMPLETELY peed. All over himself. On my bedroom floor. Cripes. I tell him to start taking his clothes off while I go rustle up dry pj's and Spiderman undies and prepare to get him clean. While in his room, a little voice, I believe it was Satan himself, giggles and says, "Check his bed, hee hee hee." And the minions shrieked gleefully and did a little dance just as my hand, in the dark, found that my boy had gone "a little" in his bed as well. Curses! You would have thought the boy had drank a Big Gulp before retiring for the night.
So, somewhere around 2 something in the morning, I climbed back into my own bed. No more burning. No more crying. No more peeing. I see the cute little cartoon boy in my mind. I hate him. His patch probably burns, too, but since he is the son of Satan, who made these evil torture devices, it doesn't bother him. Probably thinks it tickles a bit. Sick little bastard. I hope he gets pink eye in a bad way.
====================
March 23, 2006
So, I have 2 out of my 3 children at home sick right now. We've been battling ugly chest congestion, stuffy noses and fevers in the range of 102.2. It's been a real treat that has me practically bathing in Lysol in hopes of not getting it myself.
Nights have been particularly hard since it becomes rather difficult to breathe when one is not constantly yacking up the truly heinous stuff that is invading one's lungs. Being the good mommy that I am, I, of course, sought a solution. Giant jars of Vicks to slather on a rag and tie around my kids' necks? No. An old yucky T-shirt to designate as the "Vicks Shirt" that gets coated in the stuff. No. Don't want to hassle with the vaporizer (plus, they sleep in two different rooms); can't use those plug-in thingy-s because the brainiac that wired our house only put outlets in the places where one would obviously have to put furniture so none are accessible enough. No, I go the obvious, no mess, so-easy-to-use route. I go out and purchase the little menthol patches that just stick right to your kids' chest and allows them to breathe easy all night long. This particular product is put out by Triaminic. The cartoon pic of the little boy on the front is so cute and he looks so happy to be able to breathe with his little patch on. The box comes with 6 patches AND a sheet of stickers. BONUS!!
So, bedtime comes last night and I dope up my kids with the appropriate multi-function liquids and pull out the box of magic patches. Aren't they cool, I muse to the children? We ooh and ahh over how clever they are and how you can smell them right away. See, they're already working! We find all the appropriate jammies so that the patch can really emit all the soothing vapors that it can and I kiss my babies' fever-ridden foreheads and send them off to a good night's sleep. In the morning they will be just as cute as cartoon boy on the box! Yippee; score one for mommy!
Fast forward 3.5 hours. My oldest comes and wakes me asking if he can take the patch off. He's breathing OK and it's beginning to hurt. Hurt? Yes, it's burning and stinging. "Yes, yes, take it off if you feel better but put it on a piece of paper or something near your bed so you can still smell it a little," I slur through my sleep. He leaves and, as I'm drifting back into sleep, my groggy mind floats to the 4 year old who is wearing the other patch. I conclude, through my fog, that I should get up and check to make sure he is OK, too, but I apparently fall back asleep while deciding this. Instead, I'm awoken by said child who is in tears, standing by my bedside, begging me to take the burning thing off of him. Yes, yes, yes, I say in a panic and shoot straight up in bed. **Now, one would think that the burning part is the bad part. One might be correct in this assumption but there's one more challenge ahead** I reach out to grasp the patch that is adhered to my hairless, pink, feverish, baby skinned boy and begin to peel up the corner when he shrieks like a rabbit being skinned alive (if you've ever heard that sound before, as I have, it is NOT a sound you want to hear at any time of day, much less at around 1 something in the morning). Oh, yes, that's right; I am, in effect, ripping an enormous band-aid off my child's chest. My husband says, "Just rip it off!" "Off his CHEST?" I hiss. "I'm just kidding," replies DH. His timing is incredible.
So, I peel said fire patch from my dear boy's virgin skin and then hug him close. Good thing those patches came with a sheet of stickers. They will come in handy tomorrow when trying to distract my children from the raw rectangular marks on their chests. Come here, I say, as I start to lift him to my lap for a more appropriately soothing mommy cuddle. AS I'M LIFTING HIM AND JUST SETTING HIM ON MY LAP, he says, "But my clothes are wet," which I feel on my bare thigh at the same moment in time. I quickly right him to his feet once again and ask why. "I had to go a little and I had an accident." The poor lamb. He's been overcome by the burning on his chest and being in a state of panic while still pretty much asleep and tinkled a bit. If only it were that easy. Oh, no. Not my boy, the reigning prince of understatements. This child has completely peed. COMPLETELY peed. All over himself. On my bedroom floor. Cripes. I tell him to start taking his clothes off while I go rustle up dry pj's and Spiderman undies and prepare to get him clean. While in his room, a little voice, I believe it was Satan himself, giggles and says, "Check his bed, hee hee hee." And the minions shrieked gleefully and did a little dance just as my hand, in the dark, found that my boy had gone "a little" in his bed as well. Curses! You would have thought the boy had drank a Big Gulp before retiring for the night.
So, somewhere around 2 something in the morning, I climbed back into my own bed. No more burning. No more crying. No more peeing. I see the cute little cartoon boy in my mind. I hate him. His patch probably burns, too, but since he is the son of Satan, who made these evil torture devices, it doesn't bother him. Probably thinks it tickles a bit. Sick little bastard. I hope he gets pink eye in a bad way.
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