You Take the Good, You Take the Bad

Good god, these past few days have been exhausting. 50% wonderful + 50% puke covered = 100% good old fashioned insanity. I HAZ IT!

We spent the weekend (me, SOB and Fred) in the general Philadelphia area. It is, sad to say, emotionally grueling going there in many ways. I am always so constantly torn between wanting to move back as soon as we can pack up the boxes, to never wanting to leave my mountain lair. So many lovely, wonderful people, places, things, are there. People, especially.

Somehow friendship and wine make people want to pose on staircases as though it was junior prom. Go figure!

We ate at our favorite restaurant, with Freddie in tow. He was an angel baby, as you might expect, though that might have had as much to do with the insanely delicious frites than his disposition.

Maggie's first fry was at Burger King. Just saying.

Despite all of our fun, it was hard to ignore the awful cough Fred developed while we were there. When we got home, Maggie and Sam sounded just as awful. After a rendezvous at the pediatrician's office, we left with a diagnosis of four infected ears (two apiece for Maggs and Freddie) and one infected lung for Sam. Lucy, as always, has a iron clad immune system, and while she had been a little sickish previously, her amazing white blood cells showed those germs who's boss.

We hit up the pharmacy and headed home to administer medicines.

Home to three sick kids or den of iniquity?

Well, a few hours after dosing the kids up with their antibiotics, Fred started puking. And then he puked again. And then he puked all over me as he was nursing (so horribly sad). And then, just for good measure, he puked again.

This morning he woke up ravenous, and because I have ABSOLUTELY no sense, I fed him just after I gave him his morning dose of antibiotics.

Tow hours later? Cue turbo horking (tm Amalah) It was like, he couldn't just puke all at once. He had to do it in small, irregularly spaced intervals. Which boils down to, every mother loving time I changed the kid's clothes, he horked all over them. And then, when I was changing him for the 6th or 7th time, I noticed a rash all over his back and belly.

A quick google search later, and my parental mental instability had gone to eleven.

I made a quick pediatrician's appointment (the fact that they were so willing to squeeze me in on such short notice did NOTHING to quell my anxiety) and my dad came down to help out, only to become immediately covered with baby vomit. Thanks, Dad! You're the best! For throwing up on!

Luckily, the rash was not the kind babies get from an allergic reaction, but more likely the kind babies with sensitive skin get from being bathed several times in one day (and night) without being properly lotion-ed and oiled afterwards. What can I say? It was late and I was tired. (Name that reference for 50 points!)

Anyways, we got some new antibiotics, and so far (fingers crossed eleventy billion times) he hasn't puked. Or horked. Or upchucked. Or thrown up. Which is really lucky because I'm out of clean crib sheets.

Turn in for more tomorrow from the West Virginia Vomitorium!