Friday, 26 April 2013

Who has two thumbs and has slept in vomit? This girl...

I'm a complete and utter rockstar.  I've been pulling all nighters, my breasts have been groped, I'm waking up covered in vomit that is not my own -- Flash back 10 years ago and this sounds like an epic night out with the girls.  All the nastiness of a hangover is one-upped by the hilarious stories you have about dancing on speakers drinking 'double vodka crans' (which had no vodka in it at all) or watching your highschool teacher wear too tight spandex shirts with his nipples sticking out while playing guitar in CR Slam the epic cover band of the Inn Towner (a local slum of a bar that had a roof covered in asbestos that started leaking hepatitis on you when there were too many people in it, good times right?).  But in reality, sadly my baby is sick.   

My son has his first cold.  Awww, I know -- lets all hold hands and give each other knowing Mom looks of sympathy.  Alright, let go of my hand -- I hate shaking hands, it should be outlawed as a disgusting act of the 20th century.  Our children 20 years from now should laugh at us for being so foolish in handshaking like we laugh about days without the microwave.  Ugh, like at church... can I just give you the peace sign or a knowing nod or a toodle-loo wave of my fingers instead of sharing with you love and SARS when I shake your slightly moist hand?  I'm not a germ-a-phobe per se, but really no matter how much you have washed your hands... lets be honest, it's never quite enough.  But I digress.

So I must tell you about my first experience of having a sick baby.  It's awesome, everyone should try it.  So picture it, my child is coughing like he smokes three packs a day and has snot running down his face making a booger mustache and even has a slight fever but is being an absolute trooper and playing like a champ.  This goes on for three days, and I think I'm a flipping Mom God.  I have created a super-human who can not be slowed down.  Go me!  So I keep up with the acetimenophin, and I even take him in to the walk-in clinic to make sure that he doesn't need a lung transplant or has turburculosis.  I get the all clear -- beautiful.  Then after those 3 glorious days of a pseudo-sick child, there comes the night-that-shall-not-be-named for fear of naming it that it will come back and hunt me down and punch me in the face once again.  

It started out like any normal night, a little fussy before bedtime so I draw his bath and splish-splash around for a while, all it good.  Dry the little munchkin off, blow dry his epic mane, settle in for a nice bedtime story and some nom-noms and voila.  Recipe for a goodnights sleep, right?  Wrong.  Now one thing you need to know about my son is that while he is a ball of energy he is a happy dude.  Rarely cries, and if he does it's never for very long (...send your hate mail to mysonnevernaps@idon'  So imagine my dismay when it is 11 pm, and my son starts screaming.  And I do mean screaming.  I almost called for a priest and a baker and a candlestick maker to perform the exorcism.  I tried all my tricks, nothing helps.  Rock-a-bye baby, lets bounce on my enormous yoga ball.  Nope.  I'm swishing around the bedroom like a ballroom dancer.  Nada.  Here buddy, want Daddy?  Aw, shit-- the neighbours lights are going on... they can forsure hear him and are calling the police because now its sounds like we're murdering him.  His arms are reaching for me like I just handed him over to Freddy Krugar.  Ugh, I already know he's not hungry but still I pop the tit.  Serious this is my last line of defence, the boobie usually cures all, what else can I do?

My blood pressure is through the roof as I finally get him latched.  It is now midnight and we're both trying to shush the demon out of our son, who is still flipping his lid.  Latch, suck suck suck.  Unlatch, scrrrreaaaaaammmm!  Kick!  As he tries to thrust his body out of my grips I feel like I'm wrestling a 20lb bag of snakes.  Back on he goes.  Finally after 25 minutes of us stroking his hair and speaking parseltounge, he calms himself into some milky dozyness.  Beautiful.  My husband drags his tired ass to bed, because he has the joy's of working in the morning.  Me?  One exhausted tear is running down my face because I know that I have the joy of never sleeping again.

So you know that moment, where you think you've waited long enough that you're going to attempt the 'put-down'?  You've stared at their little face so intently, studying it for signs of life.  Nothing.  No twitching.  I blow in his face a little.  (Yah, I'm an asshole like that...) No reaction.  Alright, the final dead arm test.  If I can pick up his arm and drop it, without him moving, we're in the clear.  I scoop his little body closer to mine as I start the dance of the 'put-down'.  It's really like being Catherine Zeta-Jones in Entrapment when she's trying to manuever her body through the lasers or more like trying to walk through a land-mine ridden field.  One wrong move, *WHAMMY*, you're sent to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200, do not get to go to sleep for at least another hour.  I'm standing over my crib (which is at the lowest setting, just to keep it interesting), and I lift my child up -- lean over, the gentle placement on the matress.  Be careful, bum down first -- now slowly remove your hand.   You take your hand from the bottom and you place the baby down, you take your hand from the shoulder and and pray your baby doesn't make a sound.  You wiggle, slowly jiggle, under his shoulders til your hands set free... you hold your breath and hope to not wake the baby.   Phew.  You've done it.

Mentally, you're congratualating yourself for being a champ.  Back into bed you go.  Ahh, warm covers.  Assume the fetal position.  Exhale.  Sweet warm, bed bliss.  *WAAAAAAAHHHH*  Stumble to the nursery to find your child making the mattress his bitch.  You know, on all fours, rocking back and forth doing the humpty-hump?  And screaming, like he's embarrassed but just can't stop.  Time to start the tango of the tantrum again.  This repeats, for hours.  12:40, 1:30, 2:14, finally at 3:02...I give up.  White flag is a waving.  There's going to be no sleep for me tonight.  Apparently the only way to sleep is to be held.  All.  Bloody.  Night.  But don't forget to rock.  Into the spare bedroom I go, exhausted, tears streaming down my face.  All he wants his Mommy, but she's gone and in her place is a monster that growls at crying babies.  'Go.  To.  Sleeeeeeep.' I plead.

I cozy into bed.  With one free hand, make my self a little nest of pillows and blankets to prop me up.  I settle in for the long haul.  Picture me sitting crossed legged in bed rocking my baby like I'm locked in a padded room, but don't forget that there are silent tears streaming down my face -- mourning the loss of my old life where I would be able to sleep whenever, however, and for as long as I wanted.  Mourning the feeling of freedom I once felt, being able to think only of myself.  Mourning the sleep that could never be tonight as we creeped into early morning.

The baby settles, I calm down, and I do what I swore I would never do.  Co-sleep.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  When sleep deprived, all sanity goes out the window.  What you thought would never do, becomes fair game.  So I settle down beside my son, who is finally calm, and exhale.  Okay, you get to close your eyes and get a little bit of... And that's when it happened.  The unmistakeable sound of projectile, I'm in the exorcist, vomiting.  Like old faithful, the child vomited straight up and it splated straight down all over both of us before I could react.

The bed, the baby, me, everything was covered in vomit.  So I did what any self respecting sleep deprived mother would do.  I changed into the first t-shirt of my husbands I could find.  Changed my sons diaper and put him in a fresh sleeper.  Used baby wipes to smear the puke out of his hair and, wait for it, threw a towel over the vomit covered bed.  Thats right.  My own personal low, judge if you must but all that was between us and the upchuck for the rest of the night was a nice fresh towel.  There was no energy for the changing of sheets or the bathing of my child or myself for that matter.  

We slept for the next two hours together, cuddled with the wonderful sour smell of regurgitated breast milk and I was just too damn tired to care.  Ah, well... it beats sleeping with your head on a toilet which don't lie, Judgy Mc Judgers... we've all done at least once.  Be jealous haters, I'm living the dream over here.    

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