Friday, February 25, 2011

Messy Messes of Emesis

I'm in a funk, there's no other way to put it. The frequency of my blogging kinda reflects my recent moods. I think the combination of my undiagnosed Seasonal Affective Disorder and the kids being sick since earlier in the month have given me a case of the poopy pants that I just can't kick. February always makes me consider why the hell I live in New England because I.fucking.hate.winter. I don't like being cold. I don't like being indoors. Snow is cool for about 3 days and then I'm all set. I much rather prefer to go commando and wear flip flops every day. I want tan lines near my eyes where my sunglasses should be. I want sand in my scalp, not dandruff. I want to work on my new garden, not snow blow the driveway. I know, I know, "weah, weah, weah" but let me vent. I feel better already. Just a bit more complaining and I swear it's done.

To re-cap the infirmary chronology, Greta got sick before G-man. First and only (knock on wood) ear infection of the winter for her. I forgot how awful those are. She got over it in about a week and a half. (Just realized I forgot to administer her dose of antibiotic tonight - sweet, now I'm preoccupied.) While it sucked to witness her in pain and discomfort, it was just as bad to see her personality totally morph from mood swing to mood swing. If puberty is anything like that, I'm relocating to a tent in the backyard.

Gusto is still fighting some mystery illness. He has an awful cough, but he hasn't had a fever at all. He's had a boogie nose for like two weeks. His mood fluctuates a lot and he mostly just wants to be held. He's not himself. He's also been puking about every other day. It's weird because it doesn't seem like a flu per se, but it's not just a little cold either.

By the way for those keeping score at home, this winter, the over-under for cumulative pukes between Greta and Gus is somewhere around twelve and a half. And how many of those landed anywhere near a toilet or sink, you may ask? Absolutely none. I'm not talking about little, formula spit-ups by Gus either. I don't even flinch at those. He and I will be mid-sesh with a bottle, I'll pat his back, he'll spit up a bit, a stray burp shrapnel will plop into my eyebrow, I'll rub it in to straighten out a few of my renegade brow hairs in the vicinity, and we continue. That's nothing.

When August actually vomits, on the other hand, the projectile spray encompasses an area greater than a fire extinguisher. For most of those explosions, THE WIFE was the unfortunate bystander. Last night, though, he got me good. My guard was down. When that ominous cough started, I shoulda been sprinting immediately towards a toilet, a trash can, a boot, anything. Instead, I half paid attention and patted his back. Next thing I now, warm thick formula exploded in waves over my shoulder and on my neck in varying directions of our entryway to the house. Think Lard Ass and blueberry pie a la Stand By Me. We stood there for a moment. Me dazed, he triumphant. Eventually, I shrugged and stripped the both of us down on the spot. Post-puke, he was all smiles and giggles as we ran through the house - white diaper/undies only.

Moving on. Feeling better. A couple bright spots and discoveries lately, truth be told. First: WSHL 91.3 FM. I stumbled upon the Stonehill radio station, a few weeks ago. What a pleasant surprise. Of course, there are the occasional, inevitable, embarrassingly immature broadcasts by awkward nineteen year-old know-it-all dee-jay tandems discussing private jokes that seem hilarious only to them, but overall, the music selection is consistently original and most of all, enjoyable. I'm listening right now on my bedside clock radio, as a matter of fact.

Speaking of the clock radio, Greta's arsenal of new moves, combined with her increasing confidence to dance unabashedly in front of her circle of trust (me, WIFE, Augey, Nana, Pep, Mimi, "CC", cousin Sophie, cousin Johnny, and Auntie Steph), is one of the highlights of the day for me. Generally, we jam out as a family of 4 at least once per day: before dinner in the kitchen, after dinner in the kitchen, or before bed in mummy's and daddy's bedroom. The shoulder shimmy, the Nana a/k/a Elaine move, the jump around on tippy-toes, and the newly-added, spin around on the floor like Marty McFly channeling Hendrix - I wish you could witness just one of the moves but G-sizzle's sight of anyone outside the circle watching is enough to paralyze her for hours without speaking, unfortunately.

One other note on little Miss G - and I have no idea if this is early, late, expected, right on time or what, but it made me so proud irregahdless - earlier this week, we were getting ready for her bedtime. Typically, that means she'll run around in the hallway between her room, her brother's room, and our room in a last ditch effort to procrastinate going to bed for however long she can pull it off. During this time, she also often hides in my closet. So that night, I decided to don the headlamp and read books together under my ties, suits, and dress shirts hanging just above our heads. We closed the door. I switched the spelunking gear on. Meanwhile, Greta had snagged a bunch of flash cards that are bent and torn and beat up from weeks of circulation, to go along with Good Night Moon and Oink or whatever else I had brought in to our hideaway. Anyway, out of nowhere, she started to count the number of cars in a flash card. One, two, three - all the way up to nine! Totally unprompted. I was shocked and very impressed. I didn't know what to do so I hugged and kissed her and told her she was "Gorgeous Greta the Great Genius!" like I used to chant when she was a baby. (Sorry, but normally every number is 2, every color is pink, and every letter is L-M-N-O.) Whatever annoyance or frustration that was leftover from a dinner of "NO!" to every question or request just evaporated in an instant.

And, like Kaiser Soze, "as mysteriously as he arrived, he was gone," my poopy pants seem to have disappeared. Thank you all for being my therapist. Check's in the mail. My parkah (or park-er for you massholes) is retiring for the season. Good day and good night.

1 comment:

Scott said...

I am with you, Den. Winter blows.