Yesterday was just about the most horrible day in parenting I’ve had to date. As I predicted, both T and I have contracted the ‘whateverthehell’ organism that has entered both our sons’ bodies. We both felt (still feel) like death warmed-over. Shnook was on the mend and at FULL energy (read: needing attention), and Fuzz was whiny and sad with his wheezes, sneezes and scary sounding cough.
We’ve just finished our third box of tissues, only half of one remains in the household. I’m bounding through them myself.
While Shnook was busying T with trains and Animal Bingo, Fuzz made it clear that if I put him down at all, he’d go nuts. So, I carried him in the Ergo and in my arms. Oh, and he was weighed at the doctor: Eighteen Pounds, Ten Ounces. Try carrying that around for ten to twelve hours. At least I’m getting some guns out of this deal. My back is another story.
We ended up taking him to urgent care because we were worried he had contracted the Pneumonia that Shnook had. They gave him a nebulizer treatment, which didn’t really help.
So, the poor guy needed lots of love, but apparently not lots of sleep, as his naps were around twenty minutes each. Then he was so overtired that it took me almost two hours to get him down for bed. His cough and stuffed nose are really getting in the way.
Today, I took him back to the pediatrician, who confirmed that he does not have Pneumonia, but Bronchiolitis. She gave him another nebulizer treatment, which again did not really do much, and said that basically, there is no treatment for him. We just have to wait it out.
So, it seems, we all have to suffer together. Fuzz with no drugs, Me and T as sick parents of a sick sad baby and a recovering and tantrum-y two-year-old, and Shnook, the healthiest of us all, running around as if he never even had cooties despite the fact that he is the one who gave them to us.