As you can imagine, that has meant a day or so of spectacularly awful diapers. By this morning, all doubt was gone that she clearly had something going on. As we drove to preschool this morning, I mentally debated which of our many doctors to call. I’d call the pediatrician, but our primary one is on maternity leave and I don’t feel like explaining Ellie’s background to another doctor. Maybe I should call the GI doctor? Or the Complex Care coordinating pediatrician from the hospital? Oooh, maybe the nutritionist…

And then I stopped myself. Hello, Liz. This is not your first time at the rodeo. You know exactly what they’re going to say. Any doctor you call will say this:

Oh, yeah. Virus. Bummer. Keep her hydrated.

And so we made our way to Target, and I made the executive, unilateral decision to put her on Pedialyte for 24 hours. I did not call or in any way consult a single one of the 9 care providers on her “team.”

This shouldn’t be so revolutionary. A second-time mom knows that she doesn’t need to call the doctor in the middle of the night for every warm forehead or unfortunate puke. You get some pedialyte, some ibuprofen, and an extra tub of Triple Paste for the horrific diaper rash, and then you wait for that virus to run its course.

But with a highly-medical-ized child, even seven months post-hospital, it’s easy to feel like you’re a passenger instead of the driver.  With Ellie, she still sees a minimum of two therapists every week, and many other specialties check in anywhere from once a year to once a month. Anything related to food intake is especially loaded. We’re working very closely with a nutritionist to make sure we walk the line between making sure she has adequate nutrients and protein and hydration to keep her body chugging along and give it enough to grow, while not giving her too many calories for her very-short frame. It’s all calculated at every visit, and then programmed into her feeding pump.  It’s math, no consideration for demand or hunger or self-regulation, because there is none.  So you can see why I get a little gun-shy when I think about doing something totally different.

But Ellie has never been sickly or fragile. She has never been immuno-compromised. She most certainly is not underweight.  She is a nine-month-old with a stomach bug, and I rather doubt the formula that I methodically pump into her stomach is making her feel any better right now. She will be just fine, and well-hydrated, with a day of Pedialyte while this thing works its way through her system. Yes, I’ll keep an eye on her and will make the call if anything seems unusually concerning. But I don’t need a team of physicians to tell me how to take care of an infant with a virus.

Oh, right. I’m in charge, here.

But right now, I’ve got two kids on antibiotics and a third that probably should be.  And me… well…. I feel kind of funny. My face feels kind of warm.  If I could stay healthy by sheer force of will, I’d be all set. Sadly, I will probably be at the Minute Clinic when it opens at 8AM tomorrow.

One of these days, I will bore you with all of the demoralizing details of feeding therapy with a seriously orally-averse baby.

But for tonight, you get Glow Tub. Brought to you by Coolest Dad, Ever.

All hail M, who took a sick day from work to help shuttle all of this nonsense around (did I mention that Ellie already had two appointments today before we decided the big kids needed to see the pediatrician?).  Without him, it would have been a complete shit-show.

To bed, where I will dream about NOT BEING SICK, GOD DAMMIT.

The big kids only have school on Monday and Tuesday, because of course the preschool teachers need a staff day on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.  Ellie has three appointments in two days. I need to keep moving in my training program so I don’t die when attempting to run five miles on Thursday morning.  And in the meantime, I have to sufficiently de-clutter my house so that there will be room for all sixteen of us to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner.  And did I mention the brining and the roasting and the baking?  Oh, and the dog needs a bath.

This week, each day requires it’s own lengthy and time-sensitive to-do list.  When to pick up my race bib and shop for groceries. When to pick up the big kids from preschool and when to take Ellie to physical therapy. When to put the turkey in the brine and prep the green beans. When to do yoga and when to run.  It can be done, but I really need to stay on top of things.

Naturally, after we got home from dance class tonight, Rebecca started weeping and shivering and saying that it hurts when she swallows. Her 10-day course of antibiotics finished yesterday.  Tomorrow, we’ll be back at the pediatrician, and I suspect we will hear that the strep is back.

Of course it is.

On 11/11/11, I turn 33.

Not many people spend more than two decades looking forward to their 33rd birthday. I mean, really. It’s 33. An entirely nondescript birthday. But it’s been out there for me, waiting. I thought it sounded like fun! What kind of party would I have? What would we do?

Somehow my 8-year-old self neglected to consider the realities of life as a 33-year-old stay-at-home mom of three young kids. Remember how fun it was to have a birthday on a national holiday? Never went to school on your birthday? Guess what… now that means YOUR KIDS don’t have school on your birthday. Not nearly the same indulgence, believe me.

Still, I thought I’d start the day on a positive note. I was up early and got my run done, outside, nice and peaceful. It felt pretty good, as running goes, and I found the increasing light of 6:15AM much better than the pitch black of 7:45PM that I’ve been running in recently.

Sadly, it was pretty much downhill from there. Rebecca spent half the morning uncharacteristically weepy and refused to eat breakfast. After a complaint of a sore throat, and a warm body but cold hands and feet, I made the call to the pediatrician’s office. What time was available? NAPTIME. SUPER.

Stopped by Starbucks to redeem my free birthday drink, and the kids got an extra snack courtesy of their favorite barista.  Drove to M’s office to have lunch, mostly because it seemed like a fun way to kill time, and he likes to show off the kids to his coworkers.

Off to the pediatrician, who was impressed by how quickly Rebecca’s strep test came back positive.  Delightful.  More driving around, poor Ellie has been in her carseat for the better part of the last five hours.  To Target for the bright pink antibiotics, then finally back home and a late nap for everyone.

I was pretty ready to start drinking by then, but mostly just zonked out on the couch and vowed to order delivery for dinner.

Oh, birthdays when you are at home with small kids. Such glamour. Such pampering.  Still, it wasn’t all bad. I got lots of sweet, heartfelt birthday wishes at random intervals throughout the day from my kids. A hand-written card from Rebecca (she did get some spelling help from M), and Daniel’s total incredulity at the fact that we weren’t celebrating my birthday with a party at a bouncy house and dinner of pizza and cake.  In fact, both kids are insistent that we bake a cake tomorrow. Really, who am I to argue?

Farewell, 11/11/11. It was fun anticipating you all those years, and totally anti-climactic when you finally arrived. Guess I’ll have to find a new random factoid to bore people with at parties.

I’m not.

I’d like to say that we’ve stayed an extra day in Hawai’i because it’s just that much fun.  Alas, no.  The truth is that we changed our flights because of the Stomach Bug From Hell, which has taken down at least 11 of the 14 family members in this house.

It all started to go downhill on Thursday.  We got back to the house after visiting Pearl Harbor, and things just seemed… off. I chalked it up to typical family dynamics and sharing space with grown siblings for a full week, and that was part of it.  But then, down went my brother.  Within minutes, Rebecca followed suit, sick as a dog all night long.

Over the next few days, nearly everyone else got sick (I stayed in bed almost the entire day yesterday, quite unheard of), and I don’t mean “just didn’t feel so hot.”  Ooh, it was a doozy, one person to the next.  Yesterday was the day M and I and the kids were supposed to head home.  Because I’m stubborn and always anxious to go home, I initially pushed back on M’s suggestion to change our flight.  Thankfully, he won. He was right.  Not only was I a train wreck all day long, but Daniel succumbed shortly after bedtime (which would have been halfway through our flight… ugh).

As of this morning, Sunday, Daniel seems fine. I’m a bit better, but still no desire to consume anything other than ginger ale and saltines, and generally stay hydrated for the benefit of the small baby swimming around in my abdomen. M is in bed, I can’t tell if he’s about to be our final victim.

Oh, and the gas valve on the rental house broke, so we have no working stove and no hot water. And we’re almost out of paper towels and toilet paper.

If someone could just beam me instantly back to my house, that would be awesome.

Monday night, Daniel had a fever and stayed home on Tuesday. The germ factory strikes.  Rebecca was fine, and happily went to school by herself.

Wednesday, we had their long-scheduled 3-year checkup, thanks to the nightmare of pediatrician scheduling that is the late-summer birthday. You literally have to get on the books 4-6 months in advance.  Anyways, both kids are peachy, and a quick strep test for Daniel was negative, but that was a missed day of school for both.

Thursday at drop-off, Daniel claimed he wasn’t feeling well and it took a few minutes of convincing for me to get him out of the car. Whatever, the fever was gone.  So was his sister. Long gone, already hanging up her coat and putting on her classroom slippers. See ya, suckah.

Friday, we were running a little late and I was trying to get them to the car in a hurry.  Which meant that Rebecca fell flat on her face in our driveway and had two skinned knees that needed to be addressed before we could leave.  Got to school, and I almost cried watching Rebecca hobble into the building, though I know she has a tendency to just walk funny when she has band-aids.  Daniel attempted to say he didn’t want to go to school, but his teacher was working the drop-off line and quickly convinced him to go inside.

And when I picked them up? Smiles all around from Rebecca, some tired and thirsty whines from Daniel, and school bags full of completed work.

I love preschool.

The food was good.  Really good, if I do say so myself.  And judging by the very reasonable amount of leftovers in the fridge, I finally seem to have hit a sweet spot on quantity.  I started cooking early in the day (with some assistance), and cooked on and off until the final push to finish everything at about 5.  Really not bad.

My dad and stepmom were in town, and I almost felt bad that there was so little I needed by way of food prep assistance.  But hey, they were there to take the kids out for a walk while they were going stir-crazy before lunch, so that in itself is a big help.  And, really, they were just there to see the grandkids.  And see them, they did.  Daniel, especially, seems to just love the extra attention and was on full funny/cute overload.

Unfortunately, I can’t say the rest of the day (or week) was such a great success.  It was cold and rainy, so no outdoor activities.  Rebecca has been miserable and sick and over-tired the whole week (today marked 4 straight days of wailing and flailing with a side of fever and runny nose).  Unpleasant, at best.  She is a pretty demanding child when sick (I will admit she may have gotten that from me), but she feels so rotten that she has no idea what she wants.

“I want oatmeal!
NO OATMEAL!
I want TV.
NOOOO Sesame Street!
I want to sit on the chair.
NOOOOOOOOOO!  NO CHAIR NO CHAIR!
Waaaaaaahhhhhhhh……

I feeling sad right now.”

It’s exhausting.

The kids briefly sat with us for dinner, though there was a lot of demanding to get down, and a lot of “I don’t yike it” when suggestions were made to try anything but the cranberries.  Rebecca had yogurt for dinner. Daniel eventually discovered a love for Pumpkin Bread Pudding and, while devouring his serving and that of the person next to him, exhibited a focus I’d never previously seen.  He is my child, after all.

At any rate, Dad and Stepmom are headed home in the morning, and I can only hope Rebecca gets over this virus and doesn’t pass it along to her brother (a girl can dream).  It’s been, quite frankly, a nightmare. Especially since I feel pretty confident that there is nothing to be done but wait for it to run its course.

Alas.  At least the food was good.

The kind where I have to fumble around in the dark at 5:30am to administer a dose of Children’s Motrin.

The kind where it takes an hour to calm down the sick, upset child enough to convince her to come downstairs.  With the promise of TV, and the highly unusual treat of breakfast in the living room.

The kind where she won’t agree to take off her sleep sack and change her soggy diaper until 10am.

The kind where you can’t really do anything, so you take the really out-of-the-way route from the drive-thru Starbucks to the random errand, just to get out of the house.

The kind where lying down actually makes her feel worse, so she wakes up burning and miserable from her nap.

The kind where, up on retrieving her from the sad end of nap, you decide to attempt a snuggle in the rocking chair to settle down before starting the afternoon, and she passes out on your shoulder for 45 minutes.  The sort of thing she hasn’t done for probably a year and a half.

The house is still a mess, and my dad and stepmom arrive in a little over an hour.  I hereby throw up my hands and cry uncle, and beg them to help me.  And help, they will.  They’re good like that.

Happy almost Thanksgiving.  Yeesh.

But, when not dealing with such unpleasantness, I’ve also been very busy with things like this:

And this:

And this:

More to come on that, shortly. I swear. If I can actually finish what’s in the first picture…

In the meantime, are you ready for Thursday Theater tomorrow?

Saturday: I woke up sick, spent pretty much all day in bed.  My achy legs and arms felt like limp spaghetti.  I had some cute visitors in my cave guest room, but otherwise M took the kids all day.

Sunday: Felt better, M not so much.  We traded, he spent much of the day in bed.

Monday: Snowed in, stayed inside all day long and managed not to kill anyone.

Tuesday: Stir-crazy, took kids to a playspace just so we could get out.  Rebecca started feeling crappy while we were out.  When we got home to Daddy, she managed to projectile vomit, just for him.

Wednesday: Rebecca still a little off, felt like it was the right thing to skip our music class.  More time at home.  Went for a walk in the freezing cold, just so we could leave the house.  Rebecca was not such a fan.

Thursday: I was excited to go to our regular Thursday class and make up our skipped music class.  Except when I went to get them out of bed, Daniel’s crib contained a really lovely treat: blueberry vomit.  Cancelled all plans for the day.  Did more laundry.  Oh, and M felt so crappy that he spent the whole day in bed.  Didn’t even get up for fresh chocolate chip cookies.

Friday: Whew, it’s just a 24-hour bug, so we’ll get to go to gymnastics, right?  Um, no.  Daniel woke up lethargic and puked up his milk.  Plus, I spent most of the day trying not to puke, myself.  Climbed into bed for kids’ naptime, and again the moment M walked in the door.  Not sure which is worse: being healthy and taking care of sick toddlers, or being sick and taking care of healthy toddlers.  Both suck.

And, honestly, this all really felt like it was on the heels of the suckiest vacation ever, which I really hadn’t yet recovered from.  It’s just all feeling like entirely too much.

Thank god, today we all seem to be better.  No puking.  Sun came out and it hit nearly 60 degrees.  Please, oh please let this be the end of Winter.  Clocks change tonight, let’s hope that smacks things into line.  At least now we have puddles to play in.  It still means daily laundry, but I’d take muddy jeans over puke-y pajamas any day of the week.