As a mom of three boys six and under, I am well aware that in some ways, I asked for it. I asked for the stress and the chaos and the mess and the overwhelming noise and discord and pandemonium that is my life.
So I hate to complain, but I think that even the most stringent of observers would agree that the past seven days of my life have been a bit much.
It all started last Thursday, with this:
Well isn't that a weird thing on Colin's finger, I said to myself last Thursday while sitting at Starbucks with my one year old. A first time mom may have panicked and run straight to the doctor, but I am seasoned. Cool, calm, collected, and pretty sure that it was nothing that some anti-fungal cream from CVS wouldn't cure.
But in an abundance of caution, I did what any seasoned mother would do - I texted the picture to every medical professional I can call a friend or acquaintance. The universal consensus, unfortunately, was that it was not something that would be cured by anti-fungal cream. Instead, I needed to haul ass to the ER to get the infection drained and treated.
So I spent last Thursday afternoon at Children's National Hospital. Thanks to my ER doctor friend who put us on "the board" once she got my text, we were seen quickly. (Thank you, S. You save me once again). I would say it was an overall good experience, save for the fact that Colin had to be wrapped up like a mummy in sheets and Velcro to keep his body from flailing whilst the doctor punctured and drained the wound. His poor little head was the only flesh (besides his finger) that peaked out of the mummy garb and it quickly turned bright red from his screaming. I couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but I'm pretty sure it was something like: Get the fuck off of me you doctor lady. I mean really - GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME!!!!!
Turns out it was a splinter gone wrong. We left with a bandage and a seven day prescription of antibiotics. We arrived home around 3:30pm, where I was able to finally use the restroom for the first time in 7 hours. It was an unexpected way to spend a Thursday afternoon.
I was ready for a nice, peaceful weekend, but alas, it wasn't to be.
On Saturday morning, I was enjoying my weekly sleep in when my husband barged into our bedroom at 7:45am to tell me that Casey, our four year old, had swallowed a dime.
Damn you, Casey. On my one morning to sleep in?
Apparently, he swallowed the dime because he had assumed it would come out of his ear. Sigh.
Yet another call to the doctor, with instructions to examine all of his bowel movements until we find the dime. The doctor told us it should pass within five days, and if not, we should get an x-ray.
Do you know how fun it is to put on rubber gloves and examine your kid's crap? I actually don't, because I have not yet done it. This is a man's job, I say. So thank you to Dad and Grandpa for squeezing, massaging, and thoroughly searching my kid's smelly shit.
Come Wednesday, there was no dime. So off we were to the ER for an x-ray. (That's my second ER visit in a six day period, in case you were counting).
Part of me thought maybe he didn't really swallow it. I mean, no one saw him swallow it - it was entirely self reporting. And really, what 4 year old swallows a coin? Surely, the kid has some form of judgment? Reason? Desire for self survival?
Apparently not. Because the kid definitely swallowed the dime:
You see that circle there? The huge one in my kid's abdomen? That's a dime. Though actually, I don't think it's a dime. It sure looks bigger than a dime. It looks kind of quarter-ish. As if the entire situation weren't bad enough, I could practically hear the x-ray scolding me: You really need to do a better job of teaching your kid coin denominations.
So now we wait. And examine more poop. Once the coin does (God willing) pass, I am going to clean it and have it encased in glass and made into a centerpiece which Casey will be forced to display at his wedding.
You think that's all? That's not all! I have three kids, remember? Far be it for one of them to spare me this week.
Yesterday, Braden, my six year old, thought it would be fun to climb some playground equipment, fall off of said playground equipment, and knock both front teeth out.
Yeah that's right. HE KNOCKED BOTH FRONT TEETH OUT.
Mind you, one of them was loose already. Really loose. But that one wasn't knocked out, technically. The other one was knocked out, and the loose one was hanging on by a literal string after the force of the fall. I took one look at Braden's bloody mouth and the light headedness set in.
Luckily, my father was with me. Grandpa's going to pull your other tooth, I said feebly, willing myself not to pass out.
Out the other tooth went. I stuck both teeth in my pants pocket. Braden was traumatized, and feeling faint himself. The two of us were a picture of calm as we sat at the picnic bench, sipping Gatorade and keeling over trying not to throw up.
Now Braden is toothless, but happy. I guess you could say this part of the story has a happy ending, because the tooth fairy was very generous given his ordeal.
By yesterday afternoon, I was spent. I mean, I was already spent before that, but then I was really, really, really spent. My dad and step-mom, whom we are visiting, sensed my despair and graciously offered to watch the boys so I could go out and do something. At first I declined - I'm not sure why. I think because I was so exhausted that I couldn't even fathom doing anything. But they insisted, and so I did. At 4:30pm, I left the house solo. And I had the most amazingly lovely evening.
I shopped and engaged in some retail therapy. I had a glass of wine. And then I saw Train Wreck. All by myself.
By the end of the night, when I was driving home, I was starting to feel like a real person again.
This morning, I woke up in a fabulous mood. I went for a jog. I shall blog about this, I decided on my run.
Parenting involves weeks like this. It just does. There are weeks that just take it all out of me and have me wondering how it is on earth I can do this, and can continue doing this. But then, I always do.
I've learned I just need to roll with the punches, get over it, and laugh about it.
I'm not really laughing yet, but once the coin passes, I will. Once it's cleaned off.
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