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Sick Babies are a Completely Different Challenge

“You guys are getting thrown into this head first,” said the very helpful at the children’s hospital yesterday afternoon.

In the last 48 hours we have been to the children’s hospital twice. My daughter was diagnosed with Bronchiolitis, given an Epinephrine mask three times and had all the mucus in her sinus system suctioned out five times.

That doctor was fucking right.

And also super nice. This is the first time she’s been sick, really. She had a small cold a few weeks ago but I had the same cold and felt shittier than she did. This time she has a fever and had thrown up more times than I care to recall. (Honestly, I care to recall none of them but you get what I’m saying. She’s thrown up a lot.)

It is fucking scary when your baby is sick. It is terrifying to watch them vomit forcefully after a coughing attack. It is heart breaking to hear her trying to cry but only hear the air leaving her mouth because she lost her voice after crying all night. It is the worst to get in the car, go to the only drug store open on Christmas, wait in line behind the guy who can’t  decide which chips to buy his kid while the person at the cash register needs a price check on what appears to be gum. I almost yelled at every person in the line for buying less important things than the baby Tylenol and rectal thermometer I had. I almost yelled at the employee who saw the line of six customers waiting for this slow as fuck cashier and didn’t open another till. I almost yelled at the slow as fuck cashier for holding me up an extra second by asking if I had an Optimum Card?

Having a sick kid makes you a crazy person. Anyone that gets in the way of you taking care of your sick offspring will get damaged. I am a mother hen, god damnit, and I will cut you!

That’s probably extreme… And highly unlikely. I don’t carry a knife.

The easy easier parts are when the Tylenol has kicked in, she’s had her snot sucked out, she’s fed and dry and awake and playing. When she is finally smiling and grabbing her toys and toes and being her  lovely self. The worrying and stressing and crying (ours and hers) is all over and she is playing. She will be alright. I can breathe again.

The last two days has shown us a few things:

1. We are surrounded by people who love us. Loads of loving messages, offers to bring food, messages of concern and patience. We are loved.

2. We can pack the diaper bag, get her dressed, in the car safely and at the children’s hospital in 20 minutes.

3. When our child needed us to smile but we wanted to cry, we were able to smile.

4. I am nothing without my husband. Little girl needed me more than she needed him this week, but I needed him. More than I ever have before.

5. The nurses and doctors at children’s hospitals and the most patient, kind, lovely people.

I don’t know how to end this. This week was fucking hard. It could have been harder and I’m so thankful it wasn’t. I guess that’s it. The lesson learned? Always have Tylenol and a thermometer on hand.

Also listening to a baby breath and hearing the mucus rattling in their sinus cavity will make you want to cough out of sympathy.

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50/50

Every day this little girl looks a little bit more like me and acts a little bit more like her dad. It got me thinking about how I am like my parents.

My parents are such different people that o often feel at odds with my inner self.

When I am like my mother I am quiet, listening, smiling and enjoying my loved ones around me. I dislike candidly vulgar humor, I laugh loudly at really good jokes and I roll my eyes at bad jokes.

When I am like my father I am opinionated, bold and love to make others laugh. I tell brave stories and say the wrong thing loudly without I’ll intentions. People are naturally attracted to telling me their stories.

So far baby girl has my smile, her father’s eyes, his awkward cowlick, my eyebrows, his ears, his sleepiness, my lashes. I’m excited to watch how her personality develops into each of us.