This weekend was Easter. My husband was traveling, my in-laws were sick, and our childcare plans had fallen through. To top it off, my son started pooping really weird poops and refusing food. I could tell he didn't feel well and he was getting a diaper rash. I didn't expect the turn things took after we dropped my husband off at the airport. It was 3:00 pm.
Allow me to paint a picture in your mind. My kids are sleeping in the backseat - I take the long way home, meandering and listening to a murder-y podcast. When I get home, alone, with two kids in tow, I wrestle them up to our apartment. My son goes straight to nap some more since he hadn't been feeling great. My daughter wants to nurse and sleep all afternoon. Bliss! Until about 5:00 pm.
My son usually wakes up from his nap cheerily, and calls out when he's ready to get out of bed. But this Easter, my son had other plans. He woke up two hours later with a gross diaper. No details, but you get the idea - it was notably grosser than a regular diaper already is. He was ravenous, which seemed like a good sign. He ate a few slices of apple, drank some diluted Pedialyte, and a banana. When he appeared next to my shoulder and started pointing at his mouth, I didn't know what to think. Well, I didn't have time to think. He projectile vomited as I raised my hands to catch as much as I could. Luckily, he puked on the coffee table - and not the godforsaken beige carpet. It was 5:45 pm.
I caught a good amount of puke in my hands. I dumped it onto his plate and started scooping vomit with my hands, into the juice cup. After I got as much as I could picked up, I dumped it down the toilet and rinsed everything. I peeled Shep's soaking shirt over his head and started to draw bathwater.
Rory started crying.
Shep didn't want me to undress him, because his diaper rash made him wary of anything coming close to his butt. Getting his clothes off was like wrestling a greased pig with enough force to headbutt me and give me a nose bleed. I added a few bags of old breastmilk (from nursing Shep) to the bathwater, as well as a good chunk of baking soda. My hope was that the gentle ingredients would heal his skin while cleaning the half-digested banana chunks out of his hair.
With one hand, I poured cups of water over my son's head. He likes water, he enjoys showers and baths, but he hates having water on his hair and screeches like a howler monkey. With the other, I held my daughter while she nursed. That's right, one-handed. I was counting the minutes to bedtime. Since he wasn't keeping anything down, I switched to Pedialyte. After bath time, another greased-pig wrestling match, but this time with a wet greased pig. I did our nighttime routine. Prayers, kisses, and blanket, and got Shep to bed. Praise all things holy, he went down without a fuss. It was 7:10 pm.
Rory fussed for two hours, nursing intermittently. My hands were tied and I watched, helpless, as my window of opportunity to actually get anything done that day closed. That was my Easter weekend. Puke, weird poop, and lots of screaming. Sick toddlers are gross (and I feel so terrible for them) but also they're just gross and they get sick so often! It's only a few years, right? I'll still be sane when my kids finally get out of diapers, right? Somebody lie to me, I need those sweet sweet words of reassurance.
What do you remember about getting sick as a kid? And how do you clean puke out of a car seat? All this and more @pi3sugarpi3 on Twitter.