I'm Not A Doctor, But I Play One In My Head

When Berit was a baby, she had horrible, rotten, no good, very bad ears. We were in the pediatrician's office every 20 days or so -- you know, 10 days for an antibiotic to do its job, then another 10 days for another ear infection to brew. It became such a common occurrence to go in for an antibiotic injection that as soon as we'd walk into the doctor's office, Berit would start screaming and making herself throw up (that was her calling card when she was upset, no matter the problem, which was fantastic). I don't know how many times we left the office in a kids' medical gown, because she had thrown up on both of the extra outfits I'd brought for her.

We didn't have great insurance then (still don't), and I remember asking if we should consider buying one of those ear infection detectors to save us a few dollars in visits. Every time she was cranky or had a runny nose, we went in just to check, with hopes of nabbing it early and not subjecting her to the pain of an infection and many nights of restlessness. The doctor told us no, that they weren't reliable. We began hearing references to the ENT and tubes more and more, and at 9 months pregnant for Marta, I told our pediatrician that we were ready. She told us that the next time Berit came in with an ear infection she'd call in a referral to the ENT. Sure enough, one month after Marta was born and one month before Berit's second birthday, we were back in. I was a complete wreck at the time, with a newborn and a toddler with an ear infection, and took down the name of the specialist but never remembered to make the appointment. Many friends had told us that Berit's ears would probably fix themselves (they were apparently shaped in a way to trap fluid) as she grew, and wouldn't you know it, they did. That was our last ear infection with Berit.

Marta is a different story. She doesn't have frequent ear infections (though she has had her share), but she does talk -- and talk, and talk, and talk. She knows that she gets medicine when she has an ear infection, and that she gets two delicious kinds, the antibiotic and the Tylenol or Motrin. So she occasionally tells us all about her ears, that they're bothering her ("Mommy, my ears are bothering me again."), and how can you argue with a child who tells you they're sick? So we go to the doctor and they check and 10 percent of the time she's telling the truth and the rest of the time there's no ear infection, no tooth coming in, nothing. She tells the doctor all about her ailment, and the doctor looks at us like "Now who put this idea into her head?" And we pay our giant fee and get a sucker and go home.

So here's what I think. I want pediatricians to make an Ear Clinic, where you call when your kid isn't really sick but you think they might have an ear infection. You run in, a nurse practitioner or PA meets you in a tiny office so you're not taking up valuable sick-child space and peeks in the ear. If the kid has an infection they pull out the prescription pad. You pay a small fee and you're off.

We'll still need the sucker.

The Lake House Is A Sick House

We packed. We moved. We are here.

The children woke up on Friday morning feeling a bit under the weather but in good spirits. As we had heard we would need to be cleared out of the house entirely by the end of this week, we decided to push ahead with our moving plans on Friday and left the girls with Trevor's parents. We made it into the "new" house (temporary living quarters, which we've dubbed the "Lake House") just in time for the girls to come home that evening with full-blown H1N1. (Am I 100 percent sure it's H1N1? No. They haven't been tested. But their symptoms are spot on with those kids who have been tested, and the pediatrician's after-hours nurse says it sounds like it, so we think that's what they have.)

Marta is pretty sick, but not nearly as bad (yet?) as Berit. Berit can't go for a minute, truly, without having a coughing fit, and is therefore not sleeping well at all. She's drawn and pale and barely eats anything. I think Marta's rallying because of her habit of constantly eating, and while she's not taking in as much as usual, she's at least getting nourishment. I bought them a big pile of soy bars and other yummy protein-packed "snacks," along with those fortified milk drinks that are crazy expensive, so when they do snack they're getting a punch of vitamins. I feel just awful for Berit, who keeps saying things like "I'll never get better. NEVER!" and, alternatively (in the middle of the night when she's just a limp little child with a constant hacking cough), "I know I'll feel better soon, Mommy." Tiny Tim, eat your heart out.

To help matters, I spent the day reading all about the viruses that are expected to mutate into veritable plagues over the next few months. So, that was helpful.

Also: I have two deadlines next week.

And: The majority of our house still needs to be moved into storage and our house cleaned inside and out to prepare for the appraisal AT THE END OF THIS WEEK.

Plus: Trevor still needs to finish putting the ceiling up at the old house (part of the purchase agreement). THIS WEEK.

In addition: We haven't technically closed on our house yet, so, you know, we might have to move back if these people change their minds.

Bonus: The dog is sick with a mysterious throwing-up illness in this house that costs more than five of my houses. Think of the rugs. Think of me following him with towels.

The underlying current here, though, is happy and excited to be living in this amazing house (and a bit of terror in how comfortably we fit in these many thousand square feet) for the next several months, and anticipation for the ground-breaking on our land. We also have a meeting next week that is pretty exciting, and I'll write more about it after it happens.

Poor Berit. She's awake again, chanting a random "a-da, a-da," which she's been doing these nights when she can't sleep but isn't entirely awake. I think that means I should get to bed myself.

Small Victories

I'm watching Marta happily tear apart a Dora the Explorer book in her crib, because I will let her do anything today to help her forget that she has a hacking, rumbling cough that occasionally makes her throw up with its intensity. (Should I be consulting a doctor about this? I truly have no idea.)

Yesterday, when she was only showing signs of a slight runny nose, I took Berit to Target and the carousel at the mall in Traverse City, and we spent the entire day (driving) shopping, leaving Trevor to deal with naps and baby-rearing in general. He's only put Marta down for a nap once before, when she was exhausted and would have done just about anything for a crib to sleep in. Yesterday was an experiment to see if I could leave, and it worked, and even better, Trevor is now compulsively saying magical things like, "She's literally the smartest baby in the world," and "She talks like a person. A real person!" Of course I know these things. It's quite another thing when someone else recognizes them, and says them out loud, repeatedly. 

Now that Marta has calmed down for her nap, I'm off to sort the Easter toys and candy that I hid under my bed last night before the kids could see them. While at Target I picked up a little Swiper action figure for Marta's Easter basket (Swiper is the sneaky fox from Dora the Explorer whose catchphrase is "Oh, Man!", for those of you not in the know), and I'm so pleased I did because while we were on a walk last night she was singing, "D-D-D-Dora, o-o-o-o-o-o-man." 

On the Up and Up

I really, really don't want to jinx things, but no one has gotten sick, and today is Day Five. So I feel like we might be looking at brighter days ahead -- both figuratively and literally, since today is in the high 20s and this weekend is forecasted to be in the 40s!

Marta does have a little sniffly cold, which is weird because we have been NOWHERE all week, but whatever, it's easy-peazy compared to the throw-up scare. 

I'm now faced with a house full of stomach flu supplies, like bedroom floors lined with old towels, miscellaneous bowls and pots wherever the kids sleep and play, and a plain old mess from being cooped up in the same handful of rooms all week. 

I've currently got chicken marinating and the rest of tonight's dinner ingredients set out on the counter, but since Trevor came home from work early and took Berit to the waterpark and dinner, I think I'm just going to have cookies and call it a night. This weekend is full of promise, with a clean house just hours away, the sunshine streaming in, and everyone (for the most part) healthy. Ah, we're back to normal.

Sick and Crazy

On Sunday night I once again met up with my old friend Stomach Flu, who held my full attention for 12 straight hours. It's the second time SF and I have had the pleasure of sharing the same human body this season, and I can't tell you how much I enjoy the surprises SF brings. Like, will it be throw-up? Will it be *other*? Will it be both at once?

Anyway, now I'm waiting. Waiting, of course, for my children to start vomiting in the middle of the night and continue to do so all over the house for 12 straight hours. It's not the mess factor I hate (though I don't really know anyone who loves to scrub throw-up out of carpeting). It's the anticipation. It's going to bed at night, exhausted, pushing the monitor button to eyeball the kids one last time before leaving their awakenings up to my ears only, and snapping to attention because I realize that at any moment they could wake up covered in throw-up, screaming. Their bedding needs washing immediately, their pjs are stuck to their bodies, there's throw-up in every crevice/nostril/fingernail on their bodies and they really, really need a bath but all they want to do is be held and go to sleep. And then it happens again and again, because they are babies and don't realize that they should just get up and throw-up in the bathroom like civilized people. 

Neither of my children has ever begun their stomach flu bouts during the daytime. Have yours? I don't know why it's always nighttime, when they're so unsuspecting, so untelling of mysterious symptoms. It wouldn't be so bad if they woke up in the morning, threw up and spent the next 12 hours sick. At least then we could watch them constantly. But what am I saying? I DO watch them constantly, even at night. I am glued to those monitors with every sniffle, every coo, every shuffle of the blankies. 

I'm living in such fear of the SF that I've got both of their bedrooms tricked out in case of illness. They've got pots for us to hold once we've got a system down, old towels covering the carpeting, blankets already laid out as beds for me or Trev to lay on, waters ready. And I will be so, so pleased to not have to use them. 

I figure I've got until Friday before we're home-free. Unless, of course, today one child becomes infected but fights it off silently and then infects the other on Saturday or something. Does this even happen? All I know is the last time we got the stomach flu, each of us got it exactly four days apart. It's only Wednesday and we're already going stir crazy, trapped in the house! (Though at -19 --YES, NEGATIVE NINETEEN -- we're not going far anyway.)

In other news, Berit and I were crafting today and it occurred to me that she is in no way interested in playing anything at all if it can't be made into "house." For example, we played Play-Doh yesterday, and we could only make balls of various sizes to represent mommies, daddies and kids, and then we had to play with them like they were those people. And then today I got out the glue, paper, macaroni and fuzzy balls and tried to help her make something, and she did stick a few pieces of macaroni onto the glue, but mostly gathered up the fuzzy balls, named them and played house with them. I ended up just drawing different scenes onto construction paper and letting her pretend it was a dollhouse for her... fuzzy craft balls. I tried getting her to match things, notice similarities and differences, pick out textures, even make a mess with the glue, but nothing doing. Just house. What does this mean? There are very few math skills being built up in playing house. Will she not be the famous heart surgeon who travels the world healing impoverished nations that I had planned? Will she be a mere (gasp) housewife who thrives on putting babies into cradles, taking them out, and putting them back in?

Have we been cooped up too long, living in fear of the vomit? Am I making up mirages to analyze out of boredom?? Am I suffering from lack of sleep, lack of inspiration, lack of protein due to my week-long enforcement of the BRAT diet?

Throw-Up

Legend has it that every four days, after the hands on the clock have passed midnight, a member of the House of Doublestein will begin vomiting. And only when the heads of the household feel sure that all evil spirits and germs have been freed from the grounds of the kingdom through obsessive cleaning and wondrous magical charms, and only after the female head of the household has taken her brood to a particularly tactile playdate where her children's germs would mingle with the virgin immune systems of other children, will the chosen member of the House of Doublestein begin vomiting.

Sugar + Dough = Playhouse Disney Live

Months and months ago I noticed an ad for Playhouse Disney Live. That's right, I let my daughter watch morning TV, and she's so into it that I figured she'd love to see her favorite characters in person. I knew she would. I knew I would love taking her. So I shelled out $90 for three second-row-center tix to a production in Saginaw, 2 1/2 hours away. I knew it'd be worth it. 

I have these memories of going to Sesame Street Live with my family when I was little. They're in the category marked "Perfect Memories of Childhood." They involve anticipation, cheap, blinky souvenirs and popcorn, cotton candy and soda. I have been waiting more than 2 1/2 years to create such a memory with my own children (I've made other good memories I hope -- I just mean this one was different and special). I - was - stoked.

And so was Berit, when I told her about it. Aha! Just the reaction I was hoping for. She was ready for it developmentally... finally! The awe was just around the corner! 

Nevermind that Marta's been miserable all week. On Tuesday, the doctor said it was a virus that was making her super cranky, sleepless and not hungry. I swore it was an ear infection combined with her new (first!) tooth popping through, but no infections were found. No sniffles, no coughs, just a mysterious virus that makes babies feverish and fussy. How lovely.

On Thursday her fever broke, and I looked ahead to brighter days. Friday rolled around -- the day of the event -- and we dropped the dog with a friend, loaded the car with snacks, just-in-case stuff and pjs for the ride home. I even took a carsick medication so I could entertain kids from the front seat, turned around, or, if the perfect day turned into the perfect drive, READ for the two-and-a-half-hour trip there and home. (Hello, gas prices $$$) 

Marta was not excited for this day. Still miserable, she shrieked the whole way there. We arrived an hour-and-a-half early, and walked around the small waiting area trying to entertain a very-excited B and a cranky baby. I spent $40 on two blinky souvenirs that the girls really loved, and I didn't care too much that Marta was fussy, because I was way too excited to see the look on Berit's face during the show. 

The time to enter came. Our seats were perfect. We bought cotton candy ($), roasted almonds ($), yogurt pretzels ($) and chocolate-covered raisins ($). Berit was in sugar heaven, let me tell you, and I didn't even try to stop her. Marta, on the other hand, was squirmy and unhappy. "As soon as the show starts, she'll be fine," I thought. We were front and center -- she'd be mesmerized by the action and the lights. Trev and I took turns walking her around the arena. With each lap, she got more fussy, more tired, more uncomfortable. 

But the show started, and Berit's face! She was so happy! Mickey was onstage, and there was singing and interaction and dancing and oh, what promise this show held for her, for me. But Marta couldn't have been less happy, and she was letting everyone around us know about it. I had no choice but to take her somewhere less crowded (though I did try to nurse her several times right in our front-and-center seat, so that even Mickey could see my belly and possibly my breasts as Marta refused them). I moved to the last row -- no dice. I moved to the bathroom, and did something I promised my sister long ago I'd never do -- I sat on a public toilet and nursed her. Still no happiness. I proceeded to march around and around the arena through the entire show with my fussy baby winding circles around and around in my arms, trying to get comfortable and finding it impossible. Trevor says Berit loved the show, and that as soon as it was over, said, "I want more," quietly, matter-of-factly, in true Berit fashion. I know it sounds ridiculous -- I have a happy, healthy family who can do fun things together -- but I was really sad that I didn't get to watch the show with my kiddo. 

On our way home Marta crashed. When she woke up nearly in pieces she was so upset, we stopped for dinner ($) -- which Trevor and Berit ate while I hung out in the car with Marta. She then proceeded to shriek the whole way home, and Berit had an anticipated and accepted sugar meltdown. 

During the night, Marta would only sleep if I was holding her, standing up. So you can guess how much sleep we both got. This morning I took her to the doctor's office (again. $), sure her virus had somehow led to an ear infection. When we unzipped her pjs to take her temp, we noticed that her whole body had a rash on it. And to be honest, I was relieved, because there was now physical evidence that something bad was happening with my baby, and the doctor would see it, tell me what it was and what he would do to make her better.

But he said everything was fine -- the rash was simply an indication that what she had was a virus, that she probably had a headache and body aches, and to take her home, give her some Tylenol and wait, because it'd start clearing up, he guessed, by Monday.

And by the way, keep her away from other kids (sorry, Playhouse Disney Live crowd), and were we taking our kids downtown for the downtown trick-or-treating starting in five minutes and lasting for the next hour-and-a-half? 

So Trevor took Berit dressed in her dragon costume trick-or-treating, without Marta and me, and he said she "had a blast." And I missed it.

And I know this post sounds like a lot of whining on my part. I think these past few days were a shining example of Mom sacrifice, like when you were a kid and you stayed in your jammas all Christmas Day playing with your new stuff while your mom, who had purchased, wrapped, set out and videotaped your enjoyment of said stuff cooked dinner for a dozen people and cleaned up your Christmas mess. And Dad took a nap. (Not saying for a second that Trevor hasn't been my hero through all of this -- at 3 a.m. last night he took Marta and read her books for a half-hour so I could get a little shut-eye. But you understand.)

And I don't mean to sound like "Oh, moms have to sacrifice so much just so that their kids have a lovely life." Even if that were the case, I'm happy to do so. I don't know what I'm trying to say. I just wanted to see Berit happy and enjoy these things, because they're brand spanking new to her, and I wanted to see the first time she realized them, the first time they entered her consciousness. 

Side note: When I asked Trevor if he had taken any pictures of Playhouse Disney Live, he said he had. I was so excited to look at them... but they were all of Mickey Mouse.