To record, for posterity's sake, one of the Worst Days Ever.
On Wednesday Jack fell down the stairs because I forgot to shut the baby gate. On Thursday he bawled when we left my parents' house, most likely because he was leaving They Who Spoil Him and going home with the woman who forgot to shut the baby gate. And on Friday, he made it up to me by coming down with a Stomach Bug.
I have to tell you, Jack hasn't really been sick. I think he's had two colds since he's been born. I've never had to call the doctor about anything other than scheduling appointments. But he had barfed up his dinner in his bed, barfed up his breakfast and then barfed up his after-nap snack and that's when it dawned on me that perhaps he was Coming Down With Something.
I spent Friday mopping up barf and calling the doctor and updating Phillip and feeding the baby real food because he seemed TOTALLY FINE and then realizing THAT was a big mistake and... ugh. Oh and then calling Phillip and asking him to come home early, WHICH I HAVE NEVER DONE, because Jack was being the King of Whiny and I didn't want to bring the King of Whiny to a grocery store to pick up our first jug of Pedialyte.
But that wasn't the worst day. The worst day was yesterday, when he gave it to ME.
When I woke up early and felt awful I blamed it on my available sleeping positions being narrowed down to Left Side or Right Side and also the fact that Phillip, shall we say, sleeps sort of loudly. Sometimes! And when I threw up about an hour later, I blamed it on pregnancy. La la la.
When I threw up again, without having eaten anything, and when my whole body started to cramp up, we decided that Phillip was in charge and I was going back to bed.
I spent the rest of the day hurling up the NOTHINGNESS in my stomach and moaning from the bed. I lost count how many times. The one time I tried to go downstairs and be with my family, because I was feeling a little better and hadn't barfed in three hours, I had to run right back upstairs and die.
Jack, at least, was better. He had stopped vomiting and he wasn't even having the promised disgusting diapers. He was pretty lethargic and mopey in the morning, but after several sippy cups of water and Pedialyte (I have NEVER seen him drink so much!) he was a new baby and back to his charming self. He took super long naps and played like a good boy. He and Phillip would come visit me every so often, which was very cute, even if I had the energy of a 90-year-old woman in hospice care and could barely lift my head.
Also? Yesterday was gorgeous and sunny. All day long I heard people using lawn mowers and actually talking to each other outside. We'd had PLANS, but now I was an invalid who couldn't even keep down a sip of water.
But the best part?
Feeling sort of bad that we'd only given him crackers and Pedialyte all day, and he seemed FINE, Phillip said he was going to give him some real food for dinner. That seemed to work out well, until Phillip burst into the bedroom well after dinner time with a baby whose dinner was all down his front. We stripped him and put him in the bath (by that time I had kept down three sippy cups full of Gatorade, YES, SIPPY CUPS, THEY DON'T SPILL IN YOUR BED and I actually helped! Go me!) Jack didn't seem miserable, like I was. I even told the nurse the day before how chipper he seemed for someone constantly throwing up. But even that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was, right after I'd hurled up all three sippy cups of Gatorade (AH, OVERCONFIDENCE), Jack woke up. It was about ten. First Phillip went in. Then we let him cry. Then Phillip went in again. Then we let him cry. Then I went in, because after having been curled up in a ball all day, my back wasn't any better and I wasn't sleeping anyway. I pulled him out of his bed thinking I'd just sit and sing to him until he eventually fell asleep but nooooo. He wanted to PLAY. He wanted to crawl around and look at the space heater and the books on the floor and who was that snoring in the other room? I put him back in his bed, thinking I'd sing to him from the rocking chair (I was afraid if I kept wrangling him myself I'd probably throw up all over him). So I sit back down and start up my awesome rendition of Baby Beluga when he STANDS UP and starts JUMPING UP AND DOWN.
It was 12:30 in the morning.
We've had other bad nights, but not one where Phillip was utterly exhausted and I was utterly exhausted and not to be trusted with bodily functions. We had no idea what to do. There was no way either of us could stand taking him downstairs and letting him tire himself out. So we let him cry and it was awful. AWFUL. I kept telling myself that he was dry and fed and just had some water and angry about having to stay in his crib. I kept hoping that he'd realize it was THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT and get bored and go to sleep. But after I don't know how long, Phillip finally went back in and this time, probably because he was so exhausted from the crying, he fell asleep.
So I've had what? Four hours? Five hours of sleep? Inconsistent sleep, because I woke myself up every time I switched sides. At least I wasn't sick during the night, and now I'm starving. Good sign, right? I'm hoping this is just a 24 hour thing, and I'm also hoping TO GOD that Phillip is not sick today. Every time I woke up in the night I said a little prayer that he was immune.
But maybe I will be posting tomorrow about the REAL bad day, Sunday, during which I was running on Gatorade while taking care of my baby and my bedridden husband. Have you been to church yet? Pray for me.