Out sick

This isn't a post. It's an anti-post. It's a post about why it's not a post.

Okay, fine then: it's an excuse.

But you see? This is still kicking my butt. And I could live with drowning in my own snot and sounding like I've been smoking four packs a day since I was three and with the frequent attempts to actually cough up lung tissue. But another symptom seems to be that I have been robbed of all motivation to remain upright or awake. I am pathologically tired.

And I have to dig deep, because I have to be "on" all weekend. Because my husband is working two 24-hour on-call shifts at the hospital so I get to be single mom extraordinaire. And it's Pinewood Derby weekend, people! (And let's not be mistaken: I will use those as further excuses as to why I will not be posting for a few days.)

Shoot. me. now.

So. Instead of posting (because remember: this is not a post) I'm going to take a nap now.

Back soon.

Now I'm a research scientist

I heard the NIH is getting a bunch of cash in the pending stimulus package. I'm sure they think they have plenty of good uses for the money, but I have a proposal: a Department of Domestic Biochemistry. This is my first scholarly submission. Though not exactly ground-breaking, I don't think anyone can possibly deny its scientific merit.


The Efficacy of Mothers as a Growth Medium for Pediatric Pathogens

It is generally believed that children are carriers of, if not infected with, a wide variety of virulent pathogens continually between the months of October and April annually. It is also commonly believed that children, because they are filthy little beasts, are highly effective transmitters of these pathogens. This article examines the efficacy of child-maternal disease transmission.

Methods
Test group: One (1) female mother, age 39, was individually innoculated with the organism Nares Verdi Snotulinum in the following manner: a single pediatric vector, age one year, deposited a nose full of bright green nasal mucous ("snot") into his mother's mouth by placing his nose directly into her mouth and blowing. Snot transfer rate was 100%.

Control group: One (1) male father, age 34, was not innoculated.

Results
Innoculation occured on Day One (Monday) at 1700 hours. No maternal changes were noted on Days Two and Three. On Day Four (Thursday) at 1500 hours, the mother reported subjective changes such as fatigue and mild headache. Within two hours she was sitting motionless in a living room chair with measurable nasal congestion, while her children ran wild and ate alarming amounts of candy and played "toss the baby." By 1945 hours (ahem, 7:45 pm, people) she was unconscious in bed in her pajamas with a box of tissues, displaying all signs of fulminant Nares Verdi Snotulinum infection. The control group remained (of course) asymptomatic.

Extensive statistical analysis showed a 100% correlation between the following variables: motherhood, placement of pediatric snot in mouth, and upper respiratory infection.

Conclusion
In the experimental household, if a child is displaying symptoms of the "common cold," he will with 100% reliability deposit infected mucous on the mother, and she will also become infected within 72-96 hours. In the majority of cases the father will remain disease-free. No further research on this topic is warranted.

When creme brulee goes bad

Having survived Halloween and CNN's totally stupid holographic coverage of the election, I can get back to writing about significant, news-worthy issues. Like vomit.

I cannot stand throw-up. It makes me limp and quivery. With division of labor, I'm the poop-parent, and Jeff's the puke-parent. He takes care of any mess that comes out the top end, and I take care of the bottom-end disasters.

Most of the time.

Sunday night, we were safely tucked into bed and I was peacefully not having nightmares about Sarah Palin being our president, but was awakened by the creepy feeling that someone was watching me.

Jensen was hovering over me. "Mom, my stomach hurts." Great. Evan had been throwing up (so. many. times.) for 24 hours, so this only made sense. And with a silent, decisive nod, he clapped his hand over his mouth, turned and bolted into our bathroom. Then, just as abruptly, he stopped running. And I heard a loud splat.

Jeff (who had also awakened by now) yelled, "Run!!!" So Jensen recommenced running to our toilet to finish the job.

Jeff took him upstairs to clean up, and I just lay in bed and waited for Jeff to return and clean up the carnage. But he didn't come back. For ages.

Finally, because I couldn't stand the stench anymore, I ventured into the bathroom to survey the damage. Jensen had puked creme brulee from Jeff's birthday dinner all over the place. Floor, toilet, walls, bathtub, door: everywhere.

Holy hell.

Creme brulee: heavy cream, egg yolks, sugar. (Definitely not for those with weak coronary-artery constitutions. But sooo good.) It was like cleaning up an oil slick (thankfully, there were no waterfowl in our bathroom, because it would have been an enormous pain to get them cleaned up). I used an entire roll of paper towels, and a lot of chemicals (I had to use something to cut the fat), but I got it done. I weakly made my way into the laundry room, where, to my happy surprise, a mountain of stinking bed linens awaited me. Gawd.

When Jeff had gone upstairs to help Jensen clean up, he found Evan in a dead sleep, entirely encrusted in dried vomit. He had thrown up in his sleep. And then Jensen threw up again. So I was forced to wash out two beds' worth of disgusting sheets. I cannot describe the depth of my disappointment. Between the bathroom and the chunky sheets, it took an hour and a half to clean up.

We threw open the windows, scrubbed grout, and cleaned floors multiple times. After about 36 hours, the nose-hair-singeing, lingering reek of vomit no longer permeated the air and our bathroom floor was no longer slippery and greasy. And while I'm tempted to say we've emerged from the puke-ocalypse, I really don't want to jinx anything.

And I think it's safe to say it'll be a while before I eat creme brulee again.

Rose-colored eyeballs

Jensen has pink eye. Which is actually a misnomer, because his eyes are apparently more of a fire-engine red hue.

He's miserable.

And he's still at my mom and dad's house.

Mom called last night. Jensen was sobbing inconsolably. She was desperate for something (anything!) that would help him feel better. And she was worried about his eyes, which look kind of scary. The problem is, it's a viral infection, so antibiotics won't help. He's already been to the doctor twice. There's really not a lot to be done.

But man, was he unhappy. Jeff and I talked to him, and he broke our hearts. So when he said he wanted to come home, we decided it was probably for the best, even though that was going to require major schedule adjustments. (Rule #1 of parenting: be flexible.)

Mom and Dad were ready to ship him home, too. Let's face it: they're taking care of their grandson who has some hideous, painful eye infection. What if it's not pink eye? What if it's something much worse?! They hardly want to be responsible for him losing his vision. Not in their job description.

Then this morning, I talked to young Jensen again. No way did he want to come home today. Nuh-unh. (Rule #2 of parenting: be flexible again.) As I talked to him, I think I figured out what was going on.

He got in trouble at Grandma and Grandpa's house.

I got in trouble from my Grandma K exactly once when I was a kid. And I was devastated. Crushed. Betrayed. Ashamed. I cried as if someone had died.

So when Jensen 'fessed up this morning, it all came clear to me.

Yep, he has pink eye. It hurts. He doesn't feel good. And he got in trouble. I'd probably want to come home too. At least for an hour or two.

Hot snot

I don't know... if you look really carefully, can you see the snot glaze on Evan's upper lip?

I don't think I ever appreciated how icky summer colds are. They're definitely worse than winter colds.

Because little boys run around and get hot and sweaty. Sweaty little boys smell like puppy dogs. (Do little girls ever smell like puppies? I have no way of knowing.) And dirt adheres to the sweat. Throw in a friendly virus, and the attendant mucous attracts lots of additional under-the-nose dirt.

So my sweet little baby turns into a puppy-dog-smelling, crusty, grimy, snotty, dirt-moustachioed mess.

I love you, Evan. And I hope you feel better soon.