I know. I didn’t post anything here at Jedi Mama, Inc. last night. I was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and I simply went to bed at 8:00.
And just HOW did I develop PTS, you ask?
It was a process that happened over the weekend.
Maybe I should explain.
On Friday, I picked the boy up from school, as usual. We met one of his good friends at the indoor rec center, and those two big kids chased Thing 2 through the tubes and tunnels and down the slides, until they had run one hundred and nine miles. They needed to be refueled and rehydrated with bananas and water, to prevent cramps from settling in. This was a blessing, actually, because our church was sponsoring a Veggie Tales movie — all theater-like, with snacks and everything — and I thought to myself, “Well. The toddler is so exhausted, he will probably just sit down with his bag of handmade trail mix and become involved in Larry the Cucumber’s antics.”
We went through the snack line, where all the junior high and high school kids added a cup of this and a half-cup of that to Thing 2’s goodie bag, until it was filled to the brim with popcorn and animal crackers and multi-grain Cheerios and little orange crackers shaped like penguins.
Thing 2 ate his bag of trail mix exactly like any athlete who has just run 109 miles through tubes and chutes and slides in less than two hours would do, and then the movie started on the big screen in our church’s auditorium.
Four minutes later, Thing 2 was out of his seat and declared that he NEEDED TO RUN SOME MORE, because OF COURSE. One hundred and nine miles was just a race warmup for him. So, while Hubs slumped in his seat, and while the boy continued to work the concession table, I followed Thing 2 around while he ran another sixty-three miles, up and down our church’s hallways.
And then we came home, and our toddler passed out cold, cold, COLD at 8:00 on Friday evening.
And really? Friday wasn’t even related to my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, because monitoring long-distance races and making sure everyone has enough water is all in a day’s work for me.
On Saturday, Thing 2 pooped four times in the morning.
(Is that over-sharing? A little too much information? I apologize for sharing the voiding habits of my toddler.)
Now, four times is a lot, because… well… we are a “twice-per-morning” kind of household, as far as Thing 2 goes, but I wasn’t alarmed. I just changed Pampers with a little more frequency.
At 3:00, we went to our little friend Libby’s very first birthday party, because four poops? Our kid is still healthy.
And isn’t Libby stinking adorable?
Libby’s brother, Gavin, partied with us on Saturday afternoon, too.
And then he filled it one more time, just as we were leaving.
When we got home at a quarter to five that evening, Thing 2 let it be known that I HAVE MYSELF SOME DIARRHEA OF THE VERY WORST KIND! I SMELL LIKE A GOAT THAT DIED LAST WEDNESDAY AND HAS SAT IN THE SUN AND JUST BLOATED UP FOR A WHILE! I WILL ALSO SCREAM LIKE A BANSHEE AT A HORROR SHOW, BECAUSE MY BOTTOM IS BECOMING TENDER, AND I DON’T WANT YOU WIPING IT!
Welcome, PTS. This was your starting point.
By bedtime on Saturday night, I had changed approximately three hundred poopy diapers and felt like our entire house smelled of poop. I told Hubs, “I can no longer even tell if Thing 2 has pooped. The smell is stuck in my nostrils, and that’s ALL I can smell!”
I texted Lisa (Libby’s mama) and said, “I’m so sorry! Your party guests have gone home with the diarrhea, and we have more than likely exposed your entire household to The Plague.”
I think I passed out from Diaper Changing Exhaustion about 10:00 on Saturday night.
At 2:00 in the morning (some four hours later), the boy shook me awake and hollered in my ear, “Mom! Mom! I JUST THREW UP EVERYWHERE!!!”
There is nothing in this world that will shoot a mother out of bed faster than those words.
The boy, who had gone to bed as a very healthy fourteen-year-old a few hours earlier, was in the throes of STREP THROAT SICKNESS. He had a fever of 102 degrees, and he was puking faster than I could wipe things up.
Now… don’t think that Hubs just CHOSE not to help out with all the barfing fallout in the middle of the night. Hubs has this disease known as SYMPATHY PUKING. If Hubs ever JUST HEARS someone else puke… Hubs feels so sorry for them, that he throws up, too. If the boy pukes and Hubs sees it / hears it happen, then TA DA!! We suddenly have two pukers in our house! Because of this syndrome that Hubs has… because his gag reflex is so trigger happy… it’s best if he just stays in bed while the boy hurls, with a pillow over his head, blocking out all the sounds and smells, while I bemoan my misfortune to marry a guy who cannot clean up a single drop of vomit without causing another volcano of stomach contents to shoot forth.
The boy went on to throw up 48,300 more times, and THAT, my friends, is a very conservative estimate. He threw up so much, he broke all the little capillaries in his face, so that he now has hundreds of purple dots surrounding his eyes. He barfed nonstop, every ten minutes, until 4:30 in the morning, which is when he finally fell asleep again, loaded with Tylenol for his fever, and when I sort of resembled THIS:
I laid down on the sofa for a bit, because? DO YOU KNOW WHO WAS GOING TO BE UP AT 5 AM?
Yes. That’s right.
The other kid who had the diarrhea.
So I just stayed awake until Thing 2 got out of bed. He actually slept in a bit on Sunday morning, and didn’t emerge from his bedroom until 5:20.
Bless his heart.
By 6:00 Sunday morning, the boy was back up, puking his guts out in the bathroom, while Thing 2 pooped his pants and hollered, “Bubbie real sick! Bubbie need medicine!”
I was smack in the middle of active volcanoes of poop and puke.
When asked about his own issues (“Did you poop your pants?”), the toddler simply yelled, “No!!! No poop. I fine! I so fine!” And then he’d run off to hide, because DON’T TOUCH MY CHAPPED BOTTOM! MY DIAPER RASH IS A LEVEL TWELVE RIGHT NOW ON THE RICHTER SCALE, AND I WILL HOLLER LIKE I’M GOING THROUGH A BOTCHED AMPUTATION WITHOUT ANESTHETIC IF YOU PULL OUT THE BABY WIPES.
At 9:00 yesterday morning, I loaded up the boy so that I could take him to the walk-in clinic for antibiotics.
The clinic didn’t open until 10:00.
We went BACK to the clinic at 10:00, where we sat in a packed waiting room, while the boy did his membership in the Male Tribe proud. He sat in his chair and moaned, “What’s taking so long? I feel awful. I can’t be here. I have to go home. I feel SO awful! I have to go to bed. I’m going to die before the doctor calls me in. I’ll come back later. I need to lie down. I’m freezing. I need a blanket. I need to go home, Mom!! I’m too sick to even be here!!”
I made him stick it out.
At 10:30, we were in to see the doctor, and at 10:32 she diagnosed him with an awful case of strep throat.
I should have been a doctor, because I already called that one. I made the diagnosis FIRST, and I didn’t get paid $120 for for two minutes’ worth of work, like she did.
We got our antibiotics, and we went back home to puke some more. We puked in garbage buckets, our bed and the toilet, while Thing 2 pooped his pants.
IT WAS ALL A VERY GLORIOUS DAY OF THE LORD, LET ME ASSURE YOU.
By lunchtime, I was ready for margaritas and cigars, and Thing 2 was ready for something fun to do…
… so we played in the sink. He may have had the diarrhea, but he had NO OTHER SYMPTOMS. He’s healthy as a horse, but it’s a horse who can’t quit emptying his colon.
Thirty minutes later, Hubs and I cleaned up the worst flood the world has seen since Noah’s days, because Thing 2 doesn’t understand KEEP THE WATER IN THE SINK. When you issue that command, he looks at you like he doesn’t speak English, and then pours another spoonful of water over the side of the counter, onto the hardwoods.
Hubs and I think we should have named our second child CALVIN, because… BEHOLD:
My living room then looked exactly like this:
And, people… last night… after unending hours of poop and puke and fevers and DO WE HAVE FLOOD INSURANCE questions, I just went to bed. I left the living room looking exactly like it did in that picture, and I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up over my head.
My Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was in full force. I had nightmares about people throwing up in garbage cans all over the world.
However, the sun dawned bright this morning and we had fresh snow. We woke up to new beginnings and the smells of a roasted piglet.
Hubs, you see, decided last night that he wanted pulled pork sandwiches for lunch today, so he threw a pork shoulder on his Traeger barbecue before he went to bed.
Don’t all families do that? Doesn’t everyone wake up to the smell of barbecued pork at 5:30 in the morning? Doesn’t everyone shred pork off a giant shoulder bone in his pajamas at 6 AM?
After the pig had been butchered in our kitchen and Hubs had cleaned up, I set Thing 2 on the task of cleaning up his popcorn mess from yesterday. Our two-year-old is becoming a Vacuuming Expert.
And then I dressed myself in my Cloroxing Outfit. You know the one… the outfit that EVERY MAMA HAS… the one she wouldn’t be caught dead in, but goodness! What else are you going to pour bleach in? Your Silver jeans? I don’t think so. MY Cloroxing Outfit is a pair of pink pajama bottoms, that sports broken elastic, and a faded red T-shirt, which has eighteen holes in it and forty-seven white spots on the bottom half of it, due to previous cleaning days.
So, dressed as a supermodel about to hit the runways for one of Ralph Lauren’s shows, with my unwashed hair scraped back into the world’s ugliest bun, I put on a pair of rubber gloves and I stepped into the boy’s bathroom, exactly like Scarlett Johansson would have stepped into a crime scene in a good action movie.
I bleached. I scrubbed. I scoured. I bleached some more. I did manual labor until every muscle in my body felt like I had run one hundred and nine miles through a playland of plastic tubes and slides.
The boy’s bathroom has NEVER been cleaner than it is today.
I can’t say the same for the smell around here, because Thing 2’s unholy output levels today have insured that our house remains smelling like a dead and bloated goat. We haven’t had any puke today, but WHEN WILL THE DIARRHEA END?! Because how can you poop four hundred times in one day and STILL HAVE SOMETHING LEFT INSIDE TO MAKE IT FOUR HUNDRED AND ONE?
Happy Monday, y’all. Stay healthy.