If you attended my child's birthday party last weekend, I recommend you stop reading.
If you did not attend, and feel like a good pity laugh at my expense, read on.
Last Monday morning, I noticed Caroline was puny. Not eating well, and a little whiny. Nothing too dramatic, but something was definitely up. I still dragged her to the gym, to Target, to the drycleaners, etc - you know, a typical mom day. Shortly before her afternoon nap, she was playing on the floor (while I was reading my Bible. Or People magazine. Whatever.), and she suddenly climbed up into my lap, put her head on my shoulder, and just whined a long, pitiful, sickly baby whine. I felt of her forehead and sure enough, baby girl was burning hot with fever. A dose of generic non-recalled Tylenol and a thirty minute rock in mom's lap seemed to do the trick. She went down for her nap, and woke up a new, happy, unsick baby.
Whew. Crisis averted.
Tuesday was "school", which consists of preschool for Aria, and Mother's Day Out for Caroline. They were both so excited to see their teachers and ran quickly into the rooms to begin their day. Mom ran quickly to her car to get to my tennis match on time and begin my own day.
Possible foreshadowing on the remainder of my day? I lost the match 6-1, 6-0. Ick. Bad Sarah. Poor. Shame.
Does it hurt more or less when you lose that badly to your very own husband? Isn't he supposed to be chivalrous and husbandy and throw the match or something? Especially when it's my birthday?
Well, I had a pair of birthday shoes to buy, and not even the shame of an abysmal game of tennis could deter me from the joys of shoe shopping. I arrived at the shoe store with two hours stretching out in front of me, two hours to spend at my leisure in the mindless, soulless, blissful world of ladies' shoes.
Suddenly, an earsplitting sound punctures the calm, soothing, ambient environs of the shoe store. Somebody's phone ringing. Please, fool, answer your phone and stop disturbing my shoe meditation. Oh wait, my phone, me, I'm the fool. I hastily grab it and whispered a hushed, "Hello?" I get a, "Hi, Mrs. Thomas? This is so-and-so calling from Prestonwood CLC. Your child is lethargic and not eating, and has a fever of 101.5."
"Oh mercy, I'm on my way, I'll be right there to pick up little Caroline".
"Ma'am, it's not Caroline who is sick. It's Aria."
This can't be good. First Caroline, now Aria, need to call Chris, and where is that pedi's number?
I race to the school, retrieve my babies, and drag them both directly over to the doctor, who confirms after gag-and-puke throat swabs that both girls have it. Strep.
And since I'm feeling so guilty for my tennis-game-shoe-shopping excursions while they were languishing pitifully at school with this hideous microbe attacking their precious little immune systems, I let them watch lots of afternoon TV and then have ice cream before dinner. There. I said it. But that's just the way you gotta roll sometimes, people, when both your poor babies are sick, and you clearly have a very inattentive undersensitive, mommy instinct radar.
A full 24hrs of Amoxicillin and a dose or two of generic, unrecalled Tylenol = happier, healthier kids which = happy Mommy.
Sans guilt or fevers, we boarded our plane headed to the Carolinas, for a birthday weekend with the grandparents. We went up to the Blue Ridge mountains, and enjoyed God's full fall splendor on the trees.
You'd think all the medical drama would be over and done what with both kids safely on antibiotics and generic non-recalled Tylenol, right?
Only this time, it was ME, for the love of pete!
After an awesome family hike Saturday morning among the most excellent fall color palate God could design for a now-native Texan come home to Carolina, to some spectacular waterfalls with my most excellent resident wildlife biologist brother, Dr. Kick, who educated us on moss, lichens, various botanical species, and the diet of local brook trout, I was making myself a sandwich in our mountain cabin, when out of nowhere - BAM!
I'm not kidding, it was literally out of nowhere. I was slathering light mayonnaise on wheat bread when I dropped to the floor and into the fetal position. My husband and mother, both experienced with my history of kidney stones, loaded me into the rental car and rushed me to the Blowing Rock Emergency Room, where I was the sole patient and probably the most fun they'd had all day, seeing as how when you are writhing about in pain like that, you will pretty much say or do anything to make it go away.
Not one of my finer moments.
It was here that I received the most excellent of care from a Nurse Practitioner (shout out!), and even more excellent narcotics to numb my pain and stop the insanity. The little booger made its exit the following morning. How can a 1 mm grain of torture bring a healthy 29-year-old woman to her knees?
Okay, so those drugs might - just might - make me hallucinate. Ya think?
All in all, though, after my drugs wore off, and Aria and Caroline's drugs kicked in, we had an awesome time in the North Carolina mountains and the South Carolina foothills celebrating birthdays.
(I think I'll throw down the gauntlet and blame the tennis on the kidney stone. Rematch, Honey?)