Worrisome things abound

After Cary's fine rash and blotchy patch on his face refused to go away, I made an appointment for him at the pediatrician.

Dr. Bodnar said Cary's got extremely dry skin, and although he wouldn't go so far as to say he has eczema, the blotchy patch on his face is a form of it. So we now have switched to a new soap and a new lotion, Cetaphil, and we have to lather him up with it twice a day. He prescribed a stronger medication for the blotchy patch, which has to be applied three times a day. And Dr. Bodnar urged us to start bathing the children every other day, instead of every day as we had been doing. (That's one recommendation I can cheer about.)

While he was there, Dr. Bodnar could hear Cary coughing and listened to his chest. Picking up on some wheezing, he has now declared my poor Cary asthmatic. (This is the third or fourth time Cary's gotten wheezy when he has a cold.) So now, he's on a nebulizer treatment two or three times a day.

When I told my sister this news, she reminded me that doctors say that asthma, eczema and allergies tend to go together -- the Big Three. So I guess we should now be on the lookout for any allergies Cary might have.

Additionally, Cary's had a fever for the last two days and has been fairly cranky about it. Dean's had a fever too, but has been more pleasant -- until this morning. I checked them both when they woke up and Cary's temperature subsided some, but Dean's jumped up a degree to 100.8. And now both of them are crankypants. The whining, people. Good GRIEF.

They've both been out of school since Tuesday, and I figure I'll just keep them out tomorrow too. Apparently, a lot of kids in their class are sick, so perhaps I can keep them away from the other germ-generators long enough to rid our house of this bug once and for all.

Meanwhile, I am really worried about our nanny, Michelle. She's having some quite serious personal issues and I worry about her emotional state. I also worry that 1) She'll be distracted and depressed when she's with the kids and 2) She'll very soon need to find other work that will pay better and offer medical benefits.

This makes me so, so sad, I can't even tell you. I love Michelle so much. She's such a good, kind, giving, funny person and she has been amazing with and for our kids. I knew we couldn't keep her forever -- she's ambitious and talented and wants more for her life. But I had really hoped Clair would get to benefit from her love and care until she was at least 2 and ready for pre-school. And the boys -- who have been with her since they were 9 months old -- truly think of her as family. As do I.

She hasn't said she's leaving us, but she has mentioned that she is conflicted about what to do. And as much as I really want to, we just can't afford to pay her any more money. And honestly, even if we could eke out a few extra dollars, it wouldn't ever be enough for her to really support herself.

So I'm going to have to look for other alternatives, none of which, frankly, will ever be as sweet and comfortable as what we have going now. So I'm bummed. And worried about Michelle. And worried about Cary and his myriad afflictions.

One bit of good news (I'm almost afraid to say it, because you know how this works): I think I've finally figured out the secret to a full night's sleep! Two melatonin and a baby monitor turned down so low I can't hear all of Clair's moans and groans. (But I can hear if she is truly in distress.)

So -- YAY for that. Because all of these worrisome things seem much more manageable when I'm not dog-dead tired.

Worst night with the babies ever!

OK, this blog post title is definite hyperbole.

But I remember back when the boys were infants that bad nights always seemed like the WORST NIGHTS EVER. Looking back on them, even this one -- they don't seem that bad after all. And now, with a little parenting experience under my belt, I can even realize  -- smack in the middle of the bad night -- that this night is not the worst it could be.

Still. Last night was pretty sucky.

All three kids have had runny noses, but had been feeling mostly normal. Until five minutes after Michelle left yesterday and I snuggled up to Cary on the couch, only to feel that he was hot, hot, hot. I took his temperature - 101.5. Dean insisted I take his temperature: It was 99.5. And then Clair took the thermometer and dragged it across her forehead (it was so cute) so I appeased her by taking her temperature, too: It was 100! What the what? These fevers came out of nowhere!

Immediately after finding out they had temperatures, the whole lot of them descended into whininess. I tried to distract them, tried to hug and love them, but they seemed almost happy to be whiny. (Whining does make me feel better when I'm sick, too, so I guess I understand). I popped some Tylenol and decided to go with it.

But then, Cary had to go to the potty. He shuffled slowly, whining the entire time, to the potty and barely pulled his pants down. By the time he lowered his narrow behind onto the potty, it was too late. Pee was all over the floor. I hustled to the kitchen to get paper towels and cleaner. I heard a scream: "Mommy!! Clair's touching the PEEEE!"

I ran from the kitchen to the living room to keep the baby out of the wet spot, while Cary whined that he did more than just pee and now he needed me to help him wipe. (At least that part made it into the potty!) I asked him to wait while I cleaned up the pee. This pushed him from whining to full-blown crying. Clair was also crying because she had a desperate need to play in the pee, apparently.

Using one arm to barricade her, I got the floor cleaned up with the other hand, wiped Cary and told him to pull his pants up. "I cannnnn't!" he whined. "I want YOUUUU to do it!"

Meanwhile, Clair kept trying to open the potty lid to see what was in it. So I ran up the stairs to take both potties and dump them in the toilet. Cary whined ever louder as I noticed that the potties - and the potty seat that goes on the toilet -- smelled horrendous, even after I washed, rinsed and scrubbed them with Scrubbing Bubbles. I almost gagged, it was so bad. How had I not noticed this before??
I started scrubbing more and more and got a little bit OCD about it, tuning out Cary's whining, until I heard another scream: "Mommmmmy! Clair's in the kitchen cabinet!"

I ran downstairs and sure enough, Clair was sucking feverishly on a bottle of floor cleaner.  (We are really not winning any parenting awards this year, believe me.)

I pried it from her, stuck a bottle brush through the cabinet handles as Clair screamed, ran to pull Cary's pants up and decided that everyone needed to go to bed early. So up the stairs we marched.

When Dean realized that there was going to be no bath, he flipped out. The only way I got him to calm down and come put his pajamas on was to tell him that after his pajamas were on, he could have some medicine. Yes, I bribed my child with drugs. The same child who had to go to the emergency room for chugging medicine while we slept. Yes. I did. Moving on...

Sufficiently incentivized (you like that corporate-speak, don't you?), the boys got their pajamas on quickly, and took their medicine. I had to go downstairs to get Clair's bottle, so I told the boys to keep their bedroom door closed while I ran to the kitchen and not to open it under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.  I had just crossed the threshold into the kitchen when I heard the boys' door open.

Frustrated, I yelled up the stairs, "I said not to open that door under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES!!"

Deanie started stuttering: "M-m-m-m-mommmy, Cary, Cary, Cary. Umm....Cary, Cary, Cary, Cary. Umm. Cary spit up! Cary spit up because he choked!"

Then of course, I felt like the WWM (world's worst mother). I ran up the stairs (lot of running up and down stairs last night) and comforted a sad Cary, who had indeed coughed until he choked (a regular occurrence for him) and then he threw up, all over a green plastic chair. And Dean, being his ever-helpful self, tried to wipe it up and was freaking out about the fact that there was now spit-up on his hands. Meanwhile, Clair is crying because she also doesn't feel well, and is SO ready for her bottle and for bed; Cary is crying because he just threw up mushrooms and medicine; and I felt like crying because seriously -- this might not be the worst night ever but it is pretty darn close!!

I got the chair, Cary and Dean cleaned up, ran back downstairs, got Clair's bottle, ran back upstairs, said prayers, tucked the boys in, gave Clair her bottle, put her to bed and was putting all the potty seats and potty-related gear in a soaking bath with disinfectant in the laundry room basin when Lester came home around 7:45.

At that point, I considered my shift OVER. And I went to bed -- with buttered popcorn and Raisinets as my reward for surviving.

I thought I was home free, but Lester and I had just settled in for an episode of House of Cards when we heard an ear-piercing screech. Poor Clair had had a nightmare! I ran into her room (why don't I lose weight with all the running I do around here?) and scooped her up, brought her back into our bedroom, snuggled under our comforter with her on my lap and soothed my sleepy, sniffling baby girl.

After she calmed down, she was so sweet and cuddly. She smiled at us and looked adorable with her messy hair and wide eyes. She crawled over and laid on Lester, looking up at the TV as if she could understand the plot. She was so pleasant, I almost forgot that this was ADULT time. But I came to my senses, deposited her back in her bed with a million kisses, and finished the evening relaxed and content.

And with an ending like that, how could the night ever be classified as the worst night ever?


I'll save that title for another night. I'm sure there will be plenty more that are worthy.