That’s right, suckers. I have a master’s degree in Shakesepeare. Lot of good it did me.
Noodle has been sick. For a week. The longest week of my life (excluding the week before she was born, when SHE WOULD NOT COME OUT, and the week after she was born, when Bucket went back to work, when SHE WOULD NOT STOP CRYING). Huh. These grey hairs I keep finding might be from her.
Last weekend, she started acting a little cranky. Then a little more cranky. And then, all hell broke loose.
I took her to our doctor’s office on Monday because she was flooding snot and had a fever. The Serial Misdiagnoser nurse practitioner looked in her ears, listened to her back, and tried to look down her throat, but Noodle was screaming and thrashing, so it was virtually impossible. “Just a bad cold.” I debated about whether to push it, and decided no. Dumb move.
No sleep on Monday night. No nap on Tuesday. No sleep Tuesday night. Short nap on Wednesday. And so on and so forth, with snot sticking to everything, and her hot little body clinging to me and screaming. And I was getting more and more tired, and more and more sensitive, shall we say? By the time Bucket got home at night, I was Zombie Mama, walking wide eyed through the house, mechanically making dinner and putting children to bed and going to sleep myself at 9pm.
Only to wake up to Noodle in the next room screaming, “MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” in the middle of the night.
And then Peeta got this new Lego Harry Potter Wii game, which was clearly created by some singleton who hates children and their parents. It has no useful directions, so your child is left trying to wander around rooms and use magic with no understanding of what they are doing, until they break down in tears, which leads their mother, who has been reading walkthroughs from the Internet, to break down into tears and seriously contemplate burning the game and hunting down its creator to make them play the game in a locked room full of children for an unspecified number of hours.
And then it happened. At about 9am on Thursday, an hour before I was to take her to her first dentist’s appointment, I called Bucket to tell him I was about to start researching places with safe haven, and I cracked. Gasping through my tears, I ended up telling him that:
“I can’t cook risotto tonight! It’s tooooooooooo hot and I am tooooooooo tired! I caaaaaaaaaaaaaaan’t!”
And Bucket, wise man that he is, gently said, “That’s fine. We can go out to dinner, or I will cook, or we can get take out. Do you want me to come home now?”
I said no. I pulled it together and brought her to the dentist and she was an angel (of course). She took a short nap and played with her brother. We went to dinner and had Mexican food with margaritas and ate ice cream outside, and I thought life might be worth living. I thanked Jesus (and Mexico) for tequila and its medicinal properties.
I took her to the doctor yesterday morning, to see the Awesome Nurse of Love, who took one look at her snotty face and listened to her phlegmy cough and felt her hot little head and gave me drugs. Oh, drugs. The only way they could have been more welcome was if they had been for me.
It’s Saturday morning and I just slept until 9am. I had forgotten what sleep felt like. It is fucking glorious, if you’re wondering.