That may seem like obvious info to some, but I think there are lot of people out there that just don't know and assume differently. I mean, why would you know, if you've never had a reason to learn.
I've been blessed with a pretty healthy kid and I don't take that for granted. I have mama-friends that would wish they only had to deal with a stomach virus and to them I send many virtual hugs and thoughts of support. I give you full permission to roll your eyes and call me a weenie.
[insert reality check here]
Last night, I went upstairs to bed after falling asleep on the couch watching television. On my way up, I passed the thermostat and turned it down a few degrees. Nothing some down comforters couldn't counteract for the sake of saving a little on the gas bill.
Playette's room is at the top of the steps. In the few weeks that we've lived here, I've made it a nightly habit to check her and adjust her blankets that she's inevitably kicked off before taking a few more steps down the hall to my own room.
This time, as I cracked the door, a familiar smell hit me.
Familiar like from way back.
I had a pretty good idea of what I would face when I turned on the light.
Part of me wanted to close the door and walk away.
But the mama can't do that. The mama has to woman up. Especially when the daddy is trapped by snow in New York on a business trip.
With no reinforcements, I headed in to face the beast.
She was sick.
Not Tylenol or Motrin or Albuterol sick. No nebulizer was going to fix this.
It was a long night. Poor girl. She was shaking and apologizing as I cleaned up the bedding and placed her in the tub. I wish I could have been there to hold her hair, but she was pretty much done by the time I got there.
Oh, man, the hair.
I called my more experienced mama-friend who, thankfully in this case, lives 3 hours in the past and was still awake to offer advice.
Sleep be damned, we finally settled into a fitful rest on the couch. Other than that, the night was pretty uneventful and I woke to the sounds of a perky Playette offering her morning salutations.
I took this pic with my phone because I wanted to share it with BD since he was away. I had been alerted to the sound of Playette crying and when I went to check on her, there she was.
On the steps in highwater monkey pants was my daughter, crying for a reason I still do not know, with her dad's alarm clock (her new best friend) in her hands, wearing golashes that she put on herself.
I laughed because she's such a typical three-year-old and that makes me happy.
Update: I wrote this last night, foolishly thinking that we were done. Illness over! Hooray!
We're in Phase 2. Which is yuckier than Phase 1 by a long shot.
Playette's teacher had told me yesterday that she hoped we didn't have to deal with Phase 2 like some of the other kids had and I was all, "Oh, I'm sure she's fine. We avoided that part because we're awesome like that."
I literally dreamt about how I would spend my 4 free hours today while she was in school and then I woke up to her crying. She had a good reason.
I am so, so, so glad that we don't have to pay for water here. My washing machine has really been earning its keep these last couple of days.
Oh, well. It was bound to happen sometime, right?