B of C

We had plans to go on a date that night. We had a sitter lined up. We were going to get dressed up, have some cocktails and some adult conversation which means sentences that were longer than 3 words and don't involve poop or boogers. We had just finished breakfast and I put a very content and full Charlie into his play area while I started in on the dishes. And just as the garage door shut and Grant pulled the car out of the driveway, I heard a sound come out of my son that I have never heard before. It was not a good sound.

I rounded the corner to find my sweet baby boy covered in his own vomit. It was the first time this had happened and he had no idea what was going on. I didn't have any idea what to do. He was crying and I imagine if he had the ability to vocalize his thoughts he would have said something like, "Hey crazy lady in the pajamas, quit running around and pick my up out of my own vomit!" Of course, that is what I did, in addition to wiping him down, giving him a bath and then dousing his clothes in rubbing alcohol and lighting a match.

He only threw up once that day but it turns out, that is the exact amount of times it takes to ruin a date night. And thus began the downward spiral that has been the past month (roughly.) Charlie's shared his little bug with us and it made its way through our bodies fairly quickly, which was good since we were to be headed down to Southern California for my sister Jessie's graduation the following week. A few days before we left, I developed a wretched head cold that plugged up all the holes in my face and I'm pretty sure was trying to push my eyeballs out of their sockets. It was very uncomfortable and terribly annoying but we managed to have a good time. This had less to do with how proud of I was of my little sis and more to do with the amount of margaritas we consumed over the course of 4 days.


Here we all are after watching my sister be presented with her honors medal you see that she is wearing around her neck. I am very proud, even though this basically meant sitting through two very long ceremonies. She now owes me a day of babysitting, on a day Charlie hasn't napped and has the flu.


This was the day of the actual graduation. We were either a little drunk or one of us made a fart joke. Possibly both.

We returned home from LA and the cold was behind me and I was ready to be healthy again. Then, out of nowhere, I swallowed and thought, "Hmmm, my ear hurts and so does my throat." Thinking I had an ear infection, I went to the doctor with fingers crossed that with some antibiotics and approximately 24 hours I would be good as new. I was told by the doctor that I might be developing an ear infection and to only fill the prescription if I got worse. So I didn't fill it. By that night, after the pharmacy was closed of course, I had a fever, the chills, body aches and my entire throat was on fire. It was a sore throat unlike anything I have ever experienced. It felt like someone poured acid down my throat and then was making me swallow knives. Nothing took the pain away. That night I was up at least every hour because the simple act of swallowing awoke me. I finally figured out that if I just laid on my back and turned my head to the side and opened my mouth, I would drool out any accumulated spit and I wouldn't have to swallow it. It really is a wonder my husband still finds me even remotely attractive.

By the next day, my prescription was filled but the throat pain was relentless. I was literally delirious from pain. At one point I thought that laying down on the tile bathroom floor would make me feel better. After being down there for what could have been 5 minutes or 5 days, I have no clue, I looked up at my bathroom ceiling and thought, "What the hell am I doing on the floor?" If it is not obvious now, my little ear infection turned out to be strep. The ladies out there might disagree with me but this pain comes second to childbirth. Seriously.

But the worst part was I couldn't go near Charlie. I was petrified that he would get it; I mean, I am 30 years old and obviously not handling this well (See: bathroom floor mentioned above). How is my 14 month old going to be able to handle that kind of pain? So for three days Grant did everything. Which means for three days I would hear my baby wake up, Grant would go into his room to get him and I would hear, "Mama? Mama? Mama?" Each one becoming more panicked and desperate than the next. It was awful.

Even though I would not have believed you on day two of the ordeal, I did survive strep and ready to return to rowing and begin the summer. But it was on my first day back to rowing that we were putting the boat back on the rack and I felt that all too familiar electric twinge in my low back. As the day progressed it got tighter and tighter and I got twistier and twistier. (Is "twistier" even a word? Well, it is now. Especially when your spine is in the shape of an "S.")

But this has to be the end right? Because it can't possibly get worse than right now. I mean, it's not like I'm going to break out in hives or anything. Wait, why are my legs itchy? Turns out, I'm having a reaction to the antibiotic. Glorious. I'll spare you any pictures of that.

Thankfully, I had left over muscle relaxers and Vicodin from the last time I did this WHICH WAS ONLY SIX FREAKING MONTHS AGO. But whose counting? I also went to the chiropractor for the first time. That may have been a new experience but this back issue is not. I've been doing this to myself since I was about 13. Every once and awhile so I would have an episode that put me out for a day or two. As I've gotten older that's turned into a few days or in this case, almost a week. I went to various doctors when I was growing up and tried some physical therapy and had an MRI to rule out cancer, tumors or any back-muscle-eating gremlin that might be living in there but basically, my prescription was to strengthen my core. But as an adolescent who sang in the choir and found running or breaking a sweat to be bothersome, I never really followed through. After all, it didn't really effect anyone else but me.

Until now.

After Charlie was born taking care of myself became drastically more important. I began exercising and joined a rowing team. I thought I was doing everything right. But now, twice since he has been born I have hurt my back. When I'm like this, I can do almost nothing for him. I feel like a useless lump of flesh. (and I look like one too since I can't properly do my make or blow dry my hair.) Grant keeps reminding me that I'm going to get better but on the heels of all my other illnesses I've just about had it. Of course I'll get better but right now I can't do my job. I can't play with my boy, change his diaper or put him down for a nap. I can't pick him up if he falls or take him for a walk. And while I'm not doing these things, I'm not getting paid. I realize my payment doesn't come in the form of money direct deposited into my bank account but payment from Charlie fills my heart and soul. A heart and soul that's feeling terribly depleted. I'm not going to lie, Vicodin is fun. But I could sure use a paycheck from the BofC right now. (Bank of Charlie)