Yesterday, the baby and I went to my older son's school, where we taught twelve small children to play the didgeridoo. This was, as it turns out, an enormous mistake. But with a well-baby check-up and sixteen crucial errands to run, I had no time to wallow in anticipatory maternal guilt.
Bet you can see where this is going...
At 5am, the baby and I gave up on any pretense of sleep. He was a roasting 103.5, but perfectly happy to gurgle at me. I looked at the happy steamy kid and stomped down the hall to wake my partner. I delivered an impassioned and reasonably coherent rant about standard pediatric practices regarding innoculations.
By 8am, both boys were in bed with me and my partner had fled to work. I fought my way to consciousness, aware that the room was unusually warm. Nope. While the boys traded tips on converting Celsius to Kelvins, I managed the first and only sensible move of the day: I got up, washed my face and brushed my teeth. This might sound like a minor point, but heading into a day with two sick kids, I knew that the chances of my seeing my bathroom again were fairly slim.
Feed a child, dress a child, diaper one, thermometer the other, feed the first again, provide snack for the second. Thermometer for the first, dress the second, call the pediatrician, refuse to let the older one's headache panic me
(virus or head bleed?), call hematology to explain that I refuse to panic, realize that french-pressed coffee is now cold. Dose both boys with Tylenol and drink the coffee anyway, while nursing the now-furious baby and having provided the older one with books. Begin to breathe.
As I sat there, savoring my cold coffee and snuggling a baby who seemed determined to prove that yes, you can cook eggs on that, I felt a warm wetness sink in through my pajamas. I looked down and saw poop leaking through the baby's (yes, bulk-purchased) diaper, through his clothes. I readjusted him on my knee to examine the damage, thereby soaking new sections of my clothes with poop. I consulted with the child, and decided that this rated a 9.2 blowout on the baby BMO* scale. Bath for baby, shower for me, fireplace for the clothes.
It was then, of course, that the doorbell rang...
Lessons for the Mama:
1. reconsider the value of bulk diapers.
2. Stand your ground with the doctor when they suggest giving your kid five? six? innoculations at one visit. Just because they can pack three into one syringe doesn't mean there's any fewer surprises for the kid's immune system.
3. And next time, alcohol wipe the damned didgeridoo between children.
*BMO = bowel movement explosiveness