The Strawberry that Broke the Camel’s Back

That’s right. Eily is allergic to strawberries.

Take away my soymilk, my pizza, my chinese food. Get rid of yogurt, bagels and tofutti cream cheese, and other delicious snacks! Begone fresh pasta and real butter! Get thee behind me Dairy Queen treats – or any other ice-cream for that matter. So long most crackers, breads, rolls, muffins, cakes, and pies.

Gladly I have done this. Gotten rid of dairy, egg, soy, and rice.

But what I had left was a nightly snack of strawberries and blueberries to satisfy a craving for the sweet and wholesome– and now it’s gone.

To explain: Eily had strawberries for a snack the other evening and stopped eating them after about three bites. She soon had hives on her chest and was “splotchy” (that’s a fancy allergy term) in the bathtub later.

Damn and double damn.

That’s why I don’t blog anymore, friends. Because I’m hungry. I’m hungry and tired – and now I gots no strawberries for comfort.

Feel free to send dairy-free, soy-free, egg-free, peanut-free, tree nut-free snacks in an effort to revive this blog.

My Questions Now

One of my favorite quotes:

I beg you...to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer...

Rainer Maria Rilke, 1903

So, in the spirit of Rilke (ha ha!), here are the questions I’ve been asking myself recently – some profound some silly:

1. What should I boldly say “yes” – and courageously say “no” – to right now?

2. What do my children need from me at this moment?

3. How come Zane never has enough socks? We’re forever doing laundry…

4. Why is hemp milk so expensive? Why does oat milk suck when you heat it? When will I be able return to the joy ‘o soymilk?

5. How can I hold my family so that we move into this next chapter gracefully and with courage?

6. How do I parent two children gracefully?

7. What’s my preoccupation with being graceful? Life is messy.

8. How do I let others help me? What help do I need?

9. How can two children of the same parents be so different?

10. Has ZZ’s cancer returned? (Thankfully - the answer is “no” to this one.)

11. What will SRH’s next job be? What is his is Work?

12. Will it be in Columbus, Ohio?

13. Am I pulling my weight?

14. What can I have to eat?

15. How will I tell the story of this part of my life in 5 years? 10 years? 20 years?

16. Which is the right school for Zane?

17. Okay, we’ve found it…the right school. Will Zane get into this school?

18. Who do Scott and/or I have to sleep with to get Zane into this school?

19. What’s next for us? (Besides sleeping with school administrators…)

20. How come having a water fight in the kitchen at the end of the night makes everything okay?

Okay, so there are some of my questions. I’d ask for the answers, but if I’m to believe the quote above, I must live my way into the answers. So that’s what I’m doing...living into the answers, y’all.

What are some of your questions?

Whoa there, Nelly!

Dearest Fred,*

There is so much to say to you, sweet baby girl. So much to describe: the awe and fierce happiness I feel about your growing inside me, my heart’s gratitude that we get to have you in our lives, the anticipation of meeting you. But if I get to only tell you one thing, the message is…

DON’T COME OUT NOW!

No really, don’t. We’re not ready. You’re not ready. Nobody is ready.

Scoot back up in there and take a breather. There’s no reason to be hanging down below my ischial spines– you get another 6 weeks in Spa de la Mama, enjoy them. There is no rush.

Not that we don’t want you here. No, siree. Your papa and I are certainly looking forward to your arrival. We’re simply also looking forward to completing the remodel, finishing up some work projects, and getting your nursery together before you join us.

But mainly, we want you to stay in there because we want you to be completely healthy when you come out.

You can imagine my surprise last week at the doctor’s visit when she said that you were about to make a run for the border and deliver at any second. (Or perhaps you cannot imagine my surprise because you are a mere 34 weeks gestational age and so have no experience with obstetrical visits and shocking news yet. And actually, she didn’t say you were coming at any second. She just kept repeating how “low” you were. I have taken a bit of neurotic license with this one).

Anyway, I knew you had dropped, and so I mentioned to the doctor that I thought this tended to happen later in a pregnancy. The doctor wasn’t overly concerned, but decided to do an internal exam after I told her that I’d been having some pelvic pressure since then.

And then the following conversation occurred with my feet in the stirrups:

Doc: Oh…you are very low.

Me: Yeah, I know. I was amazed that I’d dropped.

Doc: Yes, very, very low.

Me: Uh- huh.

Doc: You’re at a +1 station right now.

Me: Hmmm… (that was me faking that I knew what that meant)

Doc: No, I don’t think you understand. If you were in labor right now, you would be pushing.

Me: Oh.

Doc: (shaking her head) That’s very impressive.

There followed a discussion where we determined that I needed to get monitored to see if I was having contractions (I was) and possibly go to the hospital. Apparently since the contractions were very mild, I was allowed to go home to rest. And rest, and rest some more.

So that’s what I’ve been doing…resting. I don’t do that very well, really. But I’m determined to keep you in – because I totally have complete control here - so I’ve been pushing myself like crazy…to rest.

This means, however, that I am left with a lot of time resting and thinking about what needs to be done. So there has been some preparation for your arrival:

- We bought you some preemie clothes, just in case. Completely surreal, that. They’re all “3-5 lbs” size. Yikes! But we gave them to Mimma and told her not to wash them until we actually get a hospital admission. Hey, it’s good to have them, but if you do end up being full-term, we’re taking those sweet little clothes back, mama.

- SRH through action/thought/deed/and strong non-verbals pressured the contractor into speeding things up in the remodel a bit. By this, I mean that he started working beside the contractor and would cast dirty looks his direction all the while muttering, “The baby is coming, the baby is coming” over and over. He’s subtle, your papa.

- I hired the painter to come next week to paint the kitchen, office, bathroom, and your nursery.

- Mimma came over and cleaned the entire downstairs, and Papa and I are pulling the upstairs together. Just so you know, we are filthy, filthy people. Perhaps this will change when you get here, but I wouldn’t count on it.

- We’ve completed the pre-registration forms for the hospital.

- I’ve scheduled the hospital tour and childbirth refresher class. Those both happen by next Sunday, so hopefully that’s soon enough.

- I’ve sorted and washed the 0-3 months clothes that we’ll reuse from Zane, and washed the new stuff that we have for you.

I think that’s about it, chica. The nurse said that we shouldn’t plan to make it to our due date, but there are always surprises, and I’ll know more when I see the doctor on Friday. Or when I go into labor, I suppose.

So, try to hang tight in there, child. There’s a whole big world to see out here, but you have plenty of time.

Much love,

Mama

*And of course, your name is not Fred, but we don’t know exactly what your name is yet. We’re trying to wait to meet you before making any rash decisions…and Zane has decided that if you can’t be named Cabbage or Truck, then he shall call you Fred. So it’s what we have to work with right now.

A Conversation and a Story

Dear blog reader, we have been having an ongoing conversation today, you and I. It goes something like this:

You: Hey, Zany Mama.

Me: Hmm?

You: Why don’t you give us an update?

Me: You can call me Tuesday, you know.

You: Indeed, it is Tuesday. Anyway, why don’t you give us an update?

Me: An update on what?

You: Don’t be deliberately obtuse, lady. You haven’t mentioned Keith Richards for approximately 3.5 posts now. That’s shady. What’s up?

Me: Oh Keith Richards! (hits forehead dramatically)

You: So…

Me: Okay, I’ll tell you a story, but don’t interrupt me…

There once was a beautiful young maiden who developed a terrible pain in her belly after eating prime rib for 4 days straight. Everyone in the kingdom thought it would pass once she resumed her normal repast of steamed chicken and vegetables (ha!), but, alas, it didn’t get better.

The beautiful lady’s discomfort caused much pain and strife in her kingdom. It caused famine and widespread ill-humor. Thin broth and melba toast filled the damsel’s days, and grey clouds hovered over her castle.

With near-legendary patience, the gentlewoman went through many, many medical tests until it was discovered that in her lithe mid-section there was a heinous liver tumor. A big, fire-breathing, dragon-like liver tumor.

Upon the advice of her friends, she named the tumor Keith Richards.

Once it was determined what caused her malady, the doctors told the lady that she must co-exist with Keith Richards for several months in an effort to make him shrink.

You know those Keith Richard types, the doctors said, if you simply do not feed them drugs (or birth control pills) and you limit their adult activities (leading to pregnancy), eventually they will get bored and flee your delicate system.

Although our heroine wasn’t sure about the “wait it out and it will shrink method”, she dutifully followed her doctor’s orders for several months. And finally, this week she took her carriage to the doctor’s office to hear the results of the barbaric MRI she’d been subjected to the week before.

While there, the doctor gave her grave news indeed: the tumor was not shrinking. It was the exact same size as it had been before.

The pain was better, to be sure. But Keith Richards was still living the high life in her gut.

You: So are they gonna take it out?

Me: I believe I was clear that I am not tolerating interruptions. One more and Keith and I are leaving.

Ahem…so the lovely maiden was quite disheartened – especially when the doctor said that she could expect to have this tumor FOREVER and that there wasn’t much else to do at this point.

You: But wait. You aren’t supposed to get pregnant or be on birth control with this tumor, right? What are you supposed to do?

Me: Second warning, Chatty Cathy – that’s the last time you get to interrupt. This is painful enough without your completely relevant and reasonable questions.

You: But…

Me: Oh cripes, you’re ruining the story. Fine. We’ll skip to the ending.

So the maiden was referred to her "lady parts" doctor for further evaluation and treatment. The end.

You: But that kind of sucks doesn’t it? You just have to live with a liver tumor which may or may not flare up at any time?

Me: Yeah. But the “kind of good” news is that it appears that the tumor is not affected by hormones. So hopefully, I’ll be able to, you know, resume normal operations around here. But I’m sticking to my guns here…I said one more interruption, and I was leaving.

You: But I didn’t interrupt you. You said, The End. You were done - there was no interruption.

Me: Whatever. Good day, sir. I said, Good day!

(Harumphs out of the room with a hand on her upper right quadrant crooning softly to Keith Richards.)

I've Been Out-Tumored

My best friend has breast cancer - in both breasts. She’s 37 years old and has a little boy who is 20 months old. She has a 13 year old stepson, a new job, and no time for cancer. She’s facing surgery and radiation and the possibility of chemotherapy.

We found out yesterday, two days after the mammogram and biopsy. She doesn’t see the doctor until Monday, but we know that she’ll have surgery within the next two weeks.

And while I know it will hit me eventually, I find that my heart has simply not taken in this information at all.

And my mind, well, my mind is apparently completely unwilling to deal with the situation. Each time I begin to “go there”, I simply conjure up distracting images of our respective tumors vying for the title of Most Tumor-Ific.

For background:

• I have a liver tumor - Keith Richards.
• Zingerzapper has two breast tumors - Donna and Nick.
  
• These three lumps are (in my mind at least) battling for tumor supremacy.

The Battle*:

Keith Richards: Let us just be clear – I’m the oldest. You guys are simply the new kids on the block, and I am not impressed.

Nick: Not impressed? Not impressed?! Whatever, dude. There are two of us and only one of you.

Keith: Yes, but both of you together aren’t as large as me. I’m the size of 1 ½ golf balls, yo. You aren’t even close to that.

Nick: Well, yes, but you’re forgetting the small fact that we are cancer. You’re all benign and stuff.

Keith: She’s not cancer. She’s like Stage 0.

Donna: I am too cancer. Just because I haven’t broken through that stupid milk duct and invaded the surrounding breast tissue does not make me not cancerous. I’m cancerous, dammit. You better recognize.

Keith: Fine, fine. You’re cancer. But you’re a really small cancer. You’re like the Rhode Island of tumors. Whereas I, I am the Texas of tumors. No wait. I’m the Alaska of tumors. Which one is bigger? I always forget. It doesn’t matter. I am the Biggest State of Tumors.

Nick: But didn’t your doctor guarantee that not only are you not cancer, but you have no hope of becoming cancer? I thought so. Donna and I are small but mighty CANCEROUS tumors. Eat that, big guy.

Keith: I am big and cause ongoing pain and discomfort. And I’m totally pressing on her gall bladder. What are you two doing – a little hardening, a little discomfort? Geesh, you wouldn’t even know you were there.

Donna: I think someone is a bit of a One-Note Nelly with the whole “I’m so big” thing. That’s really all you got, Keith.

Carol: I have to agree, Keith. Your only comeback is, “Ooh, I’m gigantor. I cause the organs around me to quiver in fear.” You haven’t even been biopsied. Pfft!

Nick: Who the heck are you? You weren’t invited to this contest.

Keith: Oh her, she’s my friend Karen’s tumor. She’s most likely not cancerous either.

Carol: Well, there is a 20% that I’m cancerous. Plus, even though I’m most likely not malignant, I reside in the thyroid. Therefore, my biopsy was especially icky and painful.

Donna: I must remind you that both Nick and I have been biopsied, and we’re going to be removed by a lumpectomy. Nick might even get a masectomy.

Carol: So, what you’re saying is that your days are numbered….I’m sorry, am I smiling at that?

Keith: Don’t be so smug Carol. I’ve heard the same about you. You’re also scheduled to make an involuntary exit early next month.

Carol: Whaa…?

Keith: That’s right, peeps. All of you are making your exits this May, and I’ll still be around as the guardian against french-fries and good eating for Zany Mama.

Nick: But in the meantime, we’re still way more Tumor-ific than you are.

(Nick, Donna, and Carol all nod their heads vigorously in agreement. Keith gracefully gives in and goes back to badgering the liver he rode in on.)

So, yeah, it’s been a hard week. It’s also been hard to be in my group of friends recently. We are, apparently, infested with tumors in my social circle. My liver tumor is tame in comparison to what my friends are going through, and when not making up ludicrous imaginary conversations, I am aching for them.

So, please send your prayers, your warmth and healing energy, and, yes, cross your fingers.

*And yes I know this is a bit sick and twisted, but it’s marginally better than the OG Tumor Rap Battle that I had planned to pen. I cope with humor – or attempts at humor, as the case may be.

Apparently, it IS a Tooma…

…but it’s not cancerous.

They’re still overwhelmingly sure of that – when I saw the surgeon today, he assured me that he’s “90% sure” that it’s not cancer.

(Some of you may be wondering why he’s not 99.9% sure like he was last week. I wondered that, too, and I think the answer is that he wants me to do yet another test, so that we can be even more sure. And if he maintained his 99.9% figure, I would have very little motivation to do the next test, which will most likely involve another IV and a tightly enclosed space.)

Unfortunately, it is now officially a tumor. A tumor of the focal nodule hyperplasia kind. And it’s a big one. A huge one. So big it could eat my head if it were located in my cranium, but it’s not, so it will have to be content to feast upon my liver.

Picture this: one and a half golf balls wide – that’s my tumor. And it’s spherical, so it’s also one and a half golf balls long. (And most likely one and a half golf balls deep, but he didn’t specifically mention that one).

I have a huge tumor. A gigantor lump. A big old honkin’ pile of cells growing abnormally in my gut.

But it ain’t cancer.

The treatment of choice is to “watch it”, which is what we started doing by having the abdominal CAT Scan last week. I’ll have an MRI in June, where they will gain even further assurance that it’s not cancer and see if it’s shrinking. It should shrink – that’s the going theory.

In the meantime, I am not to do anything crazy like get pregnant and/or use any hormone-based contraceptives. If so, my whopper of a mass may grow even larger, bleed out, or explode. (Okay, now I’m just being silly, but I’m really not supposed to add unnecessary hormones to the mix.)

And since it’s going to be around for a while, I’m wondering if I should name it.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

In other unrelated news, we had Zane’s second OT appointment today. It was much better than the first, but really, the only way it could have been worse would have been if the therapist had vomited on me.

I’ve decided to let Zane continue through the evaluation phase, and then make a decision about whether to continue. Mostly because I hate myself, and I’m totally into that special kind of hell a parent experiences when you sit by and watch your child fail to complete tasks that most kids his age can do and a stranger gets to write it all down on a piece of paper.

Still working on some issues there.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

On another unrelated note, Zane had his first dentist appointment today. His teeth are “perfect”, and he did amazingly well.

Unfortunately for Dr. Boylan, he and his office are now known as the generic “Dennis” at our house.

Zane can’t wait to go back to the Dennis. He gets toys at the Dennis, and Dennis cleans his teeth really well. Dennis gave him a Pooh brush.

Dennis is da man.

Back to Life, Back to Reality

We’re back from a completely fabulous weekend away. Well, I guess it wasn’t completely fabulous for all involved. (Our host’s grandmother passed away while we were visiting, and another friend got motion sickness so badly while riding the metro that she puked up a perfectly good dinner.) But for SRH and I, the weekend was pretty darn good.

Good food, some drinking, great friends. Just what the gall bladder and liver doctor ordered.

When we returned, Zane’s asthma was flaring and the house was a wreck, but I’m still really glad we went, even though our host subjected us to Aqua Teen Hunger Force.

Whatever. All fun has a price tag.

In other news, Zane had his initial occupational therapy evaluation yesterday. I could share several irritating details about the visit, but suffice it to say I was unimpressed with the incredibly short (20 minutes) session.

Apparently, his evaluation will stretch out over 2-3 appointments, although the therapist felt free to go ahead and refer to his “auditory processing dysfunction” a few times. Great…we have a diagnosis without a full assessment. Mama loves that.

And here’s a bizarre tidbit: After seeing Zane for approximately 6 minutes (I checked my watch), the therapist said that she was unconcerned about his inability to participate in group activities at preschool.

This, after the preschool teachers and I have both expressed concern that he seems unable to participate and is very “wiggly” during said activities. But not to worry, the therapist who barely knows my child is not concerned.

Would you like to know why?

Because, she reported, it seemed like we were an “active” family, and so he was probably just used to being more active than the preschool expected. But since he was clearly able to focus on the puzzle he was doing (interestingly enough, a solitary activity), and we’re such an active family, it doesn’t seem like a problem.

Huh?

I have a few issues with her assumption that we are especially active – as flattering and/or innocuous as that may seem. 1. She was only seeing 2/3 of “we” since SRH wasn’t there. 2. We – including SRH - are NOT especially active. and 3. She’d only known us for 6 minutes (the duration of which we sat at a small table doing a decidedly non-group activity) before she made her judgment.

So, I’ve been pondering how she made the assumption that we’re an ever so active family, and I can only surmise that it’s because I wore track pants to the appointment.

Yep, I think that’s it. I wore athletic pants. Therefore, we must be active.

Next time I plan to wear a beret, so she can tell me how French we are.

What erroneous assumptions have been made about you lately?

It's Not a Tooma

In the interest of not being a liar pants, I will tell you about my appointment with the surgeon yesterday. But I don’t want to tell you. I will…but only because I said I would.

If you’ll recall, I had a gallbladder test last week which was both painful and barbaric. Fortunately, it indicated that there is indeed a problem with my gall bladder. The doctor said that most gall bladders do their gall bladder thing at a rate of 50% blah, blah, blah.

My gall bladder is currently under-performing at a rate of 32.5%. Splendid, I thought. They’ll take the blessed thing out, and I can go back to my diet of red meat and sausage.

Not so quick, my petite pumpkin. While half of all surgeons will remove a gall bladder functioning at under 35%, my particular surgeon holds himself (and my organs) to a more stringent standard. In his estimation, the organ must be functioning at 30% or below to warrant removal. Therefore, he does not recommend surgery at this point.

Me: Well, I am disappointed, but at least I got confirmation that it is indeed my gall bladder, so next time this happens maybe I can get it resolved more quickly. (I smile hopefully but not, I pray, desperately.)

Surgeon: Well, there is actually something else…

Me: (smile frozen)

Surgeon: The HIDAScan found a benign mass on your liver.

There was lots more explanation after that, including how long term use of birth control pills can lead to such a mass or maybe it’s a clump of blood vessels, but really the final message was …blah, blah, blah…there’s something foreign on your liver, and we’re not sure what it is.

So, here’s me, a cranky mommy blogger with a mass of something or other on my liver.

Me: But at least it’s benign right?

Surgeon: I’m 99.9% sure that it’s benign.

Well, thank goodness for that.

I figure that surgeons don’t throw out the “99.9% sure” phrase for just anything. He’s got to be pretty confident; therefore, I am confident.

I do feel pretty good about it all – except that it means that I have to go for more testing next week to get some specs on the I'm-sure-it's-benign mass.

Surgeon: We’ll just need to get a good look at the tumor to clarify exactly what it is. Then, we’ll have you repeat the test next year to see if the tumor – well, it’s not really a tumor, I shouldn’t call it that – to see if the mass has gotten smaller.

Me: If it’s not really a tumor, can we not call it a tumor?

Surgeon: Oh, of course. It’s a mass. Sorry about that.

So, this is how I take control of a situation. I word smith it.

My coping is phenomenal.

But I truly am feeling positive and fairly un-worried. I will feel better, however, after the test results come back verifying that my liver may have lumps but none of them are cancerous.

Now, if I could just get rid of this pesky gall bladder.

Yet Another Gall Bladder Test Today

To update, I saw the surgeon two weeks ago, but he said that he can’t remove my gallbladder based on current test results. He felt really badly because he said that my symptoms are classic gall bladder-itis. Well, he didn’t actually say gall bladder-itis. He said that my symptoms were a “classic case”. I added the gall bladder-itis part because I’m a clever, wordsmithy writer of the highest order. Anyway, the surgeon said my test results didn’t warrant surgery, but that he was sending me on for another test to try to get something that would make the case.

I was disappointed that the foul organ wouldn’t be coming out, but I have been feeling lots better, so I didn’t cry and grovel for him to cut me.

So, today was the test. I had a HIDAscan, and I will just own here that I was not at all prepared. I had what I thought was a HIDAscan 5 years ago, during my first gall bladder flare up. Apparently, I was wrong. During the test in the past, I ate some radioactive oatmeal, and they took a few pictures of my gut. Easy peazy lemon squeezey.

Except that’s not what happened today.

Today, I walked in and the nurse immediately started eyeing my arm. Whatever for? I asked myself. My arm is not a chicken wing. There is no need to view me like you’re a dog, and I’m a pork chop.

Nurse: You’ll need to decide if you want to take off your shirt or if you want to pull up your sleeve for the IV.

Me: What? I thought I was going to eat some crummy oatmeal.

Nurse: Nope. That’s another test. We have to do two different injections for this test so we do an IV.

Neurotic Factoid #35, I am really bad with needles. Really bad. Like so bad that I can make my mom cry if she’s in the same room with me when I have to have a shot. The “whys” aren’t important, suffice it to say that I must do some serious mental preparation if my skin barrier is to be breached.

I tell the kind nurse that I am not so god with the sharp things, and she’s relatively sympathetic but not skilled enough to not blow out the first vein she tries to get. (And yes, I know that this characterization of her skill level is grossly unfair, but after she dug around in my wrist for a little bit, I was in no mood to be fair.)

Nurse: Oops. Your vein puffed.

Great.

I have never actually blown a vein before, and it was surprisingly painful. But there was no time to inspect the damage as they quickly started searching for another vein and told me to lie down on the table and not move.

So I lay down on the table, and they put this large piece of imaging equipment over my entire torso and injected me with a radioactive dye. They positioned my arms to my sides, and told me that I would need to lie still for 60-90 minutes. 60-90 minutes!

So here’s me, laying stock still staring at the ceiling for 75 minutes. I couldn’t fall asleep for fear of moving. I couldn’t read because my arms were plastered to my side and there was a contraption pulled almost up to my chin. All I could think was, This is a desperate way for a mama to get some down time.

At the same time, the blown out vein on my wrist was hurting. A LOT. I couldn’t see it, but I envisioned that my throbbing wrist was swollen and discolored because clearly the trauma to the area was severe.

And then the betrayal. Turns out that the injection and the insane amount of stillness was only THE FIRST PART of the test.

This was followed by yet another injection (but to be fair, I had an IV at that point, so the actual getting of this injection wasn’t such a problem) that made my gall bladder squeeze “like you just ate a high fat meal” followed by about 40 more minutes of stillness. Except this time the stillness was accompanied by nausea and pain since I stopped eating high fat meals 8 weeks ago because of this whole gall bladder thing.

And throughout it all, my wrist was throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. And I’m envisioning the carnage that must be my lower arm; because it hurts so badly. But of course I can’t see it, as I’m super busy holding still. Really still. Not daring to move even my eyes still.

And ridiculously, all I could think was, Well, this will at least be an interesting picture for the blog.

So behold, my massive vein blow-out:

Do you see it?Ack, the pain! The pain!

The Best Laid Plans

I apologize that I haven’t been a good bloggy friend to many of you recently– i.e. haven’t stopped by to read your posts, left very few comments to let others know I am alive, and ee gads, my own posting has been sparse of late – but we have had a hectic few weeks, and this week has been particularly crazy. I’ve been working a bunch, SRH has been working even more, and Zane has been consistently demanding things like food and water.

Fortunately, Zane seems to be continuing on this track of good health. Well, except at night. For the past 4 nights in a row, Zane has woken up a little after midnight coughing like crazy and really congested. We give him a breathing treatment and some cough syrup (because we can’t really tell if it’s asthma) and then after about an hour, we all get back to sleep.

And in the morning, Zane is JUST FINE. No symptoms, no problems, he feels great.

So last night, SRH and I went to bed really early because we’re both exhausted from the long work hours and interrupted nights, and we figured that even if we had to be up for an hour in the middle of the night, we’d still get in 8 good hours of sleep.

Yeah.

So after midnight, the coughing/snottiness starts and we do the breathing treatment and cough syrup routine. But the cough won’t go away. And then:

Me: Uh-Oh. Did you just hear that?

SRH: (grunt, grunt, groggy, groggy)

Me: SRH, did you hear that?

SRH: Wha-?

Zane: (puke)

Me: That.

We added puking to the coughing-snot mix. The child coughed so hard, he puked. And sure it was gross, but Zane really didn’t seem much bothered by it. We changed his clothes and proceeded to stay up with him for TWO MORE HOURS while he coughed and talked rolled around the bed, generally working hard to make sure neither of us got a full night’s sleep.

And while I was the one who held him throughout the breathing treatment, the cough syrup, the puking, and the incessant gabbing, when he was finally ready to settle down, the Little Judas wanted SRH to cuddle with him. And once he was done giving lovings, he came over to me so that he could fall asleep with his little vomitous breath on my face.

So that was nice.

Then this morning, Zane was just fine. Completely fine. Totally fine. So weird.

And there’s been no change in his bedroom environment. Nothing that would explain that this strange nightly coughing fit. I am left to simply believe that I am in some type of hell reserved for people do not deserve a good night’s sleep. Probably the hell for folks who are not good bloggy friends.

And don’t you go and make this about Zane. I know it’s his coughing, but it’s my lack of sleep, and that’s gotta count for something. Plus, he’s fine the next morning. Totally fine. Whereas, I am a sleep-deprived mad woman who goes to work disheveled and bitter.

(I have noticed that my posts recently have been very Zane-specific. And more particularly, Zane-and-illness-specific. If you’re wondering, I’m kind of sick of it, too. This is how deep winter is for my family, lots of energy and attention given to Zane’s health. Which is completely fine and appropriate, so I’ll blog about it. But I, too, am longing for a future where I blog about Lionel Richie, crazy yoga classes, and anything other than asthma and food allergies. Maybe I’ll tell you about the time I dated a guy who kept a gun in his backseat – and I shot a man for snorin’ too loud.)