Sick Days

This is not the face of one's first real illness, but what can I say? The Bug isn't a wholly normal kid.

A few hours before this picture was taken, I put him down after a feeding to find he wasn't breathing well. This is the kind of stuff of which first time moms' nightmares are made. He sounded congested and stuffy and didn't stay down long before crying in frustration. So, I picked him back up, elevated him a bit, and he rested. Then he seemed okay, no more congestion, so we had some laughs.

Later in the afternoon, the ragged breathing came back, so I took him to the doctor. The prognosis? Acid reflux. I think the doctor got stuck on the fact that elevating him a bit made him feel better. Doctors tend to be a little smarter than I am so I believed her, even though this felt like the equivalent of taking your car in with a dead engine and being told the tire's just flat.

Last night, it started in earnest again, and he was pissed off. He fussed mightily and would not be put down. Even diaper changes set off the ragged breathing and some pretty heartbreaking coughing. So, I experimented. The swing, the bouncer and the carseat worked only for a few minutes at a time. All required constant manual swinging/rocking/bouncing (the swing noise set him coughing again), so even when he got a few minutes' rest, I didn't. Finally, in the interest of getting sleep, I propped him up in the Boppy (the tag reading "DO NOT ALLOW BABY TO FALL ASLEEP ON THIS OR ANY OTHER PILLOW" resting against his head) on my lap in the rocking chair and rocked him to sleep. He still only slept for a few minutes at a time before I'd have to rock him back, but at least I was comfortable.

I marked the time on CSPAN, which showed the traffic leaving Houston. People escaping incoming Hurricane Rita. The freeway was a parking lot, probably still is. Cars on the side of the road, out of gas. Cars in line at the few gas stations that hadn't run out.

I also discovered that late at night, Cartoon Network is actually worth watching.

The last time I remember seeing on CSPAN was 4:15 a.m.

At around five, Mister Aran woke and came out, ready to help. The Bug was asleep on my lap. Should I wake him? Shouldn't he sleep? I handed him over and put myself to bed for the first time. I laid there two minutes before The Bug started to scream. All of Mister Aran's efforts were in vain. The Bug was hungry. I took him back. I felt like hell. Mister Aran, thwarted, retreated to his computer in the next room and did not return for Take Two.

I watched the time, again, on CSPAN while getting The Bug back to sleep. I dozed. The smell of me wafted up to my nose; I hadn't had a moment to shower yesterday, I hadn't brushed my teeth today, and I was getting rank. I wore the same clothes that I'd put on... how long ago? Thirty hours?

Finally, it was 8:50, the shower was running. My stomach was eating itself. I was sick with hunger. Mister Aran came out with the ironing board. My mood darkened. He emerged, looking ironed and shaved, smelling clean, wanting a goodbye kiss. Wasn't going to happen. I basically told him to go to hell.

***

I'm going to intercut another picture here, because it's gotten sad and I hope this will help things. This is what it looks like when The Bug yawns.



***

Here's what people, especially men, just do not understand: taking care of one baby is fairly simple work. It's taking care of everything else that would make me throw the changing table through the window, if I had the energy. I haven't slept more than three hours in a row in months. My body is shit compared to pre-pregnancy. But I'm supposed to take care of this infant, plus dust, vacuum, do laundry, make bed, scrub bathroom, sweep and mop floors, clean litter box, feed kitty, take out trash, wipe down counters, grocery shop, make dinner, do 99% of the driving, clean spots on carpet, pay bills, buy airline tickets, go through mail, maintain some kind of savings, keep the car serviced, drink all my water, track all my food, get to Weight Watchers meetings, work out, moisturize...

All of this on a few scattered hours of sleep, with maybe a quarter of the energy it really requires, and at the end of the day I'm supposed to feel vixenish enough to make my husband feel appreciated, or the next morning he's going to abandon me for the computer for a few hours.

What I'm trying to say is, it's my fault, I'm guilty, but I'm pleading insanity.

***

Finally, this morning, the kid goes down into his car seat. I get a glass of water and a piece of apple pie because it is fast, there isn't much else to eat in the house, and I'm hoping the fat stays in my stomach until lunch so that I won't feel so sick again. I down a glass of water and run to the bathroom. When I get out, I feel wretched. I drop to my knees next to the car seat and I tell him not to mind me because I think I've had enough and I'm going to cry for a little bit. And The Bug, who's having a really tough time breathing, whose face needs washing, who's had only a little more sleep than I have, has only this to say: