I'm writing this from the kitchen table. Usually I'd be on the couch, but this corner of the kitchen is really the only place in the house that doesn't make me want to cry right now.
Wow. I am such a baby who probably needs to turn in her Mom Card. But seriously.
The house, which I had shockingly kept in some bit of order lately, is again turned upside down in an amazingly symbolic homage to the health of my family for the past week.
It all started when my husband came down with the worst cough I've ever heard. He missed a few days of work last week and was finally diagnosed with bronchitis over the weekend. A steroid shot and inhaler have helped, but he still sounds bad.
By the end of last week, we got a call from daycare that our 2-year-old had barfed all over his favorite shirt: Popeye. Disaster on many levels. He has had violent diarrhea that continues even today, which comes with … all moms chime in here … violent diaper rash. Lovely.
By Sunday, I was down. I got my child's vomiting and diarrhea, but instead of my husband's chest cold, I got something new to the mix: a head cold. So in addition to running back and forth to the toilet for four days, I've felt like my head and face have been constantly squeezed in a vise.
My husband (whom I can not thank enough for taking care of us all while we've been sick) has returned to work and continued to heal, and my son appeared to be doing well except for the poops … until yesterday.
Yet another trip to MedExpress revealed yet another ear infection. Oh fun.
That calls for another antibiotic, which almost always leads to more violent diarrhea, which leads to … all moms chime in here … more violent diaper rash.
We got our son to sleep at a decent hour last night, only for him to wake up and want to lie on the couch with Daddy. He felt so bad, what do you do? You let him hang out on the couch.
What happened next can only be described as a Power Puke that left little untouched with mostly red juice, soaking our couch cushions, blankets, pillow and the 2-year-old himself. So at midnight, we were throwing the kid into the bathtub, blankets into the washer and we were deep cleaning couch cushions.
That pretty much catches you up on why I didn't have a weigh-in report on Monday. My weight-loss pal Alan weighed, and he said he stayed the same — even after walking 10 miles the day before.
I also drug myself onto the scale Monday after one of those bathroom runs, and even after I was Poopy McPukesAlot, I had lost 1 pound.
I don't care. Not this week.
I just want us all to be well. I have such a greater appreciation for anyone who deals with a chronically ill child or family member after this past week. I couldn't handle it. I am weak.
And I am sitting in the corner of my kitchen trying to actually get some work done for a very understanding employer, wishing I was well enough to rejoin society, trying not to think about the condition of the house or the pain in my head, trying not look at the couch cushion that is still drying and trying not to cry.
It's not working so well.