Just when we thought we could name the boy "healed," the phone rang.
Or rather, Dave instant messaged me. "Boy has a rash. I'll meet you at Allison's." I was at work. The third day out of the last eight that I had actually made it into work. I dutifully shut down my computer and hurried out of the building.
By the time I got there, Dave was rocking the boy and he informed me we had a doctor's appointment in 15 minutes. Spence seemed slightly subdued. (Come on, you love that every word in that sentence started with an 's.')
Team Snyder arrived at the Children's Clinic without actually laying an eye on the rash. Dave checked in and I tried to sneak a peak at the rash. I couldn't really see anything. My anxiety started to bubble up as I feared that we had morphed into over-anxious parents. Was there even a rash?
By the time we entered into the exam room, I was convinced it was fine and more focused on not looking like an idiot in front of our beloved Dr. Goel. I undressed Spence. I flitted between wanting to see bright red splotches to justify our third visit to the doctor and hoping his skin was pasty as ever. Small pink spots were visible...almost like an impressionist's rosebud smudges. Perhaps not enough to warrant a trek to the clinic.
Dr. Goel smiled, wrote a note that allowed us to return to daycare and we were on our way. Spence snoozed all the way home.
Showing posts with label Dave. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dave. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Flu Watch: Day 6
Spence is still sick.
(I would like to say that accounts for my 18 voicemail messages piling up on my cell phone, but we all know that is not really the case...)
Dave and I wake up every morning full of hope that Spence is on the mend. We chatter back and forth that we think that he's "over the hump" or "turning the corner." We even flirt with the idea that he'll eat some solid food in the afternoon. Which letter of the BRAT diet will we start with? Toast? Bananas? Spence will nurse a little. Then comes the vomit baptism. And we're back to Pedialyte, one minute nursing sessions and repeated calls to the advice nurse, who assures us these stomach bugs can last 7 to 10 days. Our optimism fades completely. We are deflated. It feels like we are failing him.
(I would like to say that accounts for my 18 voicemail messages piling up on my cell phone, but we all know that is not really the case...)
Dave and I wake up every morning full of hope that Spence is on the mend. We chatter back and forth that we think that he's "over the hump" or "turning the corner." We even flirt with the idea that he'll eat some solid food in the afternoon. Which letter of the BRAT diet will we start with? Toast? Bananas? Spence will nurse a little. Then comes the vomit baptism. And we're back to Pedialyte, one minute nursing sessions and repeated calls to the advice nurse, who assures us these stomach bugs can last 7 to 10 days. Our optimism fades completely. We are deflated. It feels like we are failing him.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Spewing Spencer
There was a Spencer who swallowed round rocks,
I don't know why he swallowed those rocks.
I guess he'll...
projectile vomit all over his mama.
I should have known that I could not escape 2007 without being vomited on.
In a bizarre and irrational twist, I blame Anastasia. She nudged me to give the boy some raisins. Soft candy rocks. He gobbled them up like his dad does expensive dark chocolate truffles. Suddenly, visions of raisins danced in his head. Whereas before he would have cruised by the random piece of trash on the floor, he now does the raisin roulette with all found objects. This time he lost.
But, the two round rocks that he apparently categorized as "raisin" had not yet been discovered in the rivers of vomit that drenched me, the bed and the floor. (The boy was mostly unscathed.) I just watched in complete terror as my child had morphed in to a vomiting Garbage Pail Kid. I shrieked for Dave.
He came running.
We were not at home, but in a odd hexagon-shaped cabin apparently owned by fundamentalist Christians. Most of the other rooms in this home were normal. The room that our friends stuck us in was distinctly not. There was a large stained glass window of a cross and crown commemorating a guy who died in World War I. This was flanked by a tacky 'painting' of Jesus surrounded by lambs on one side of the window and three different versions of the Bible on the other. Ha, ha. Stick the religiously confused interfaith family in the Christian room for New Years. Watch the hijinx ensue.
So when Dave found us, the rosy light from the Christian soldier gravestone window was illuminating the vomit. I was near tears as Dave assessed the situation. Spencer was now giggling and babbling to his "Dada." Just like his Mama, the post-vomit feeling is usually a serene relief. Dave dragged us into the bathroom.
He found a towel and started to wipe the chunks of vomit off me. I howled at him and told him to stay focused on the (clean) boy. Spence cooed. I grabbed the thermometer and the Vaseline and got a reading. No fever. Spence commenced his favorite pastime...pulling himself up. More snickers from the boy.
He's fine. It has taken me three days to finally catch my breath.
I don't know why he swallowed those rocks.
I guess he'll...
projectile vomit all over his mama.
I should have known that I could not escape 2007 without being vomited on.
In a bizarre and irrational twist, I blame Anastasia. She nudged me to give the boy some raisins. Soft candy rocks. He gobbled them up like his dad does expensive dark chocolate truffles. Suddenly, visions of raisins danced in his head. Whereas before he would have cruised by the random piece of trash on the floor, he now does the raisin roulette with all found objects. This time he lost.
But, the two round rocks that he apparently categorized as "raisin" had not yet been discovered in the rivers of vomit that drenched me, the bed and the floor. (The boy was mostly unscathed.) I just watched in complete terror as my child had morphed in to a vomiting Garbage Pail Kid. I shrieked for Dave.
He came running.
We were not at home, but in a odd hexagon-shaped cabin apparently owned by fundamentalist Christians. Most of the other rooms in this home were normal. The room that our friends stuck us in was distinctly not. There was a large stained glass window of a cross and crown commemorating a guy who died in World War I. This was flanked by a tacky 'painting' of Jesus surrounded by lambs on one side of the window and three different versions of the Bible on the other. Ha, ha. Stick the religiously confused interfaith family in the Christian room for New Years. Watch the hijinx ensue.
So when Dave found us, the rosy light from the Christian soldier gravestone window was illuminating the vomit. I was near tears as Dave assessed the situation. Spencer was now giggling and babbling to his "Dada." Just like his Mama, the post-vomit feeling is usually a serene relief. Dave dragged us into the bathroom.
He found a towel and started to wipe the chunks of vomit off me. I howled at him and told him to stay focused on the (clean) boy. Spence cooed. I grabbed the thermometer and the Vaseline and got a reading. No fever. Spence commenced his favorite pastime...pulling himself up. More snickers from the boy.
He's fine. It has taken me three days to finally catch my breath.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Tom & Jerry: Redux
To quote Elton John, "The Bitch is Back."
In this case, the bitch is the mouse.
At approximately 5:30 a.m. CST, I went to get Spence after a particularly lovely night of sleep. (No, actually it was lovely...no sarcasm here.) The fatal mistake? I left the bedroom door open after returning.
Enter Byron the Cat with a mouse tucked in his jaw. A mouse that was decidedly not dead.
A typical Tom and Jerry scene started to play out in our bedroom. Except Tom had an ally.
Dave.
As the mouse started to dart towards my breast pump, Dave jumped up and started to toss junk out of Byron's way. I grabbed the boy and skittered out of the room. Dave locked himself in the room with Byron and "Jerry."
Safe in the playroom, Spence and I were playing the 'make a tower, knock it down' game and shaking the maraka. No worries, Dave kept us in the loop with a barrage of text messages.
Message #1: "6:04 a.m.: It's a cage match now. Mouse grows tired, cover diminishes. It knows a larger predator is on the scene." One that may or may not be wearing pants.
Message #2: "6:10 a.m.: I almost want to leave. Exhaustion tugs at me but solidarity will see me thru." A tuffle. Footsteps.
Message#3: "6:27 a.m.: Hunters together. He looks east. I look west." A severe picture of Dave's profile juxtaposed with Byron lazily lounging on the carpet was attached.
Message #4: "6:34 a.m.: My weapon." A picture of my school binder. Great.
Message #5: "6:42: Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide." With a picture of our (now) bare floor. I shuttered to think of all of the neatly folded clean clothes that had been folded on our floor.
More footsteps and Dave's excited voice. I hear him charging down the stairs in triumph. "The game has been caught! The mouse is dead!" In the end, it was Dave, not the cat, that killed the quarry.
My hero.
In this case, the bitch is the mouse.
At approximately 5:30 a.m. CST, I went to get Spence after a particularly lovely night of sleep. (No, actually it was lovely...no sarcasm here.) The fatal mistake? I left the bedroom door open after returning.
Enter Byron the Cat with a mouse tucked in his jaw. A mouse that was decidedly not dead.
A typical Tom and Jerry scene started to play out in our bedroom. Except Tom had an ally.
Dave.
As the mouse started to dart towards my breast pump, Dave jumped up and started to toss junk out of Byron's way. I grabbed the boy and skittered out of the room. Dave locked himself in the room with Byron and "Jerry."
Safe in the playroom, Spence and I were playing the 'make a tower, knock it down' game and shaking the maraka. No worries, Dave kept us in the loop with a barrage of text messages.
Message #1: "6:04 a.m.: It's a cage match now. Mouse grows tired, cover diminishes. It knows a larger predator is on the scene." One that may or may not be wearing pants.
Message #2: "6:10 a.m.: I almost want to leave. Exhaustion tugs at me but solidarity will see me thru." A tuffle. Footsteps.
Message#3: "6:27 a.m.: Hunters together. He looks east. I look west." A severe picture of Dave's profile juxtaposed with Byron lazily lounging on the carpet was attached.
Message #4: "6:34 a.m.: My weapon." A picture of my school binder. Great.
Message #5: "6:42: Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide." With a picture of our (now) bare floor. I shuttered to think of all of the neatly folded clean clothes that had been folded on our floor.
More footsteps and Dave's excited voice. I hear him charging down the stairs in triumph. "The game has been caught! The mouse is dead!" In the end, it was Dave, not the cat, that killed the quarry.
My hero.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
If You Give a Mouse Pudding...
There might be a mouse in our downstairs bathroom.
I walked into the kitchen to find Dave hunched down and ushering Byron the Cat into the bathroom. "Go! Go! Go!" he was whispering.
"Whatcya doing?" I asked on my way to get some non-fat vanilla yogurt to mix with No Pudge brownie mix and eat raw.
"You don't want to know."
"Byron catching a mouse?" and with that I had opened the floodgates.
"YES! And I need something for back up. To get the mouse! Go! Go! Get me a broom or a mop. Quick! Quick, woman!"
"Whatcya going to do with it?"
"Get the mouse," he said disgustedly.
This from the man that asks me to 'protect' him from spiders. I went back to watching Grey's and munching on my faux chocolate pudding.
Byron is still in that bathroom. Dave is, as I type, chastising me for not loving Byron enough. "Think of all of the times you have tossed him off the bed. Toss! And now he is defending OUR BABY!" (Our baby who is asleep, mind you.) "When he gets that mouse, I am going to fill his dish to the brim!"
Still no actual sighting of the mouse.
I walked into the kitchen to find Dave hunched down and ushering Byron the Cat into the bathroom. "Go! Go! Go!" he was whispering.
"Whatcya doing?" I asked on my way to get some non-fat vanilla yogurt to mix with No Pudge brownie mix and eat raw.
"You don't want to know."
"Byron catching a mouse?" and with that I had opened the floodgates.
"YES! And I need something for back up. To get the mouse! Go! Go! Get me a broom or a mop. Quick! Quick, woman!"
"Whatcya going to do with it?"
"Get the mouse," he said disgustedly.
This from the man that asks me to 'protect' him from spiders. I went back to watching Grey's and munching on my faux chocolate pudding.
Byron is still in that bathroom. Dave is, as I type, chastising me for not loving Byron enough. "Think of all of the times you have tossed him off the bed. Toss! And now he is defending OUR BABY!" (Our baby who is asleep, mind you.) "When he gets that mouse, I am going to fill his dish to the brim!"
Still no actual sighting of the mouse.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Another Saturday Night...
So lately, my husband and I have been sitting on our rust colored couch, side by side, and instant messaging. We flirt. We discuss the declining state of our garden. We chat about our future. And listen to the sound of the ocean. (Our son, already resisting being a Minnesotan, requires the sounds of the ocean to drift asleep.) Typing a way, our elbows brushing in a very Victorian way. Here's a snippet from our conversation tonight...
me: Hi honey
What should I call my blog?
Dave: hmmm, that's a good question, pussycat.
8:56 PM ?
babymamadrama?
me: Nope. No drama.
Dave: MizWardn'Spence
Lil'Spence's Mama
Reading Rhizomes
me: Nope. I am not only defined by Spence.
8:57 PM Reading Rhizomes is funny...a take off of reading rainbow.
Dave: I know, I know... that's why I'm working on the reading angle
YES
me: Clever.
Should I really get that stuff at Old Navy?
Dave: Oooh, I could rename mine "Gunslinger Papa" after the Stephen King series
8:58 PM me: I really, really like the Bone to be wild sleeper.
Yup. Except aren't you anti-gun?
Dave: Yes.
Whatever, I'll stick with rhizomes for the moment.
I used to have another blog, the blog that will not be named. I'll try to be more faithful to this new one. I think the new coffee maker that I got...the best coffee maker in the world...will certainly aid in my dedication. More (oh, lots and lots more) to follow on my new pal.
Right now, my dear hubby is anxiously instant messaging me to help him figure out how to post a picture. Off to rescue...
I used to have another blog, the blog that will not be named. I'll try to be more faithful to this new one. I think the new coffee maker that I got...the best coffee maker in the world...will certainly aid in my dedication. More (oh, lots and lots more) to follow on my new pal.
Right now, my dear hubby is anxiously instant messaging me to help him figure out how to post a picture. Off to rescue...
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