Plague Baby

BabyBoy is sick.  We're not quite sure what he has, other than a "fever of unspecified origin, with suspected Roseola".  Today starts the third day of fever, and if it IS roseola, this would be the last day of fever, then we'll enter the rash phase.  I've forced the issue and Hubby and I are splitting the time taking care of him at home, since we can't take him to daycare until he's been 24 hours without a fever.

I'd like to stop and take a moment to pat myself, and my genetic contribution to BabyBoy's immune system, on the back.  My "spunky immune system" (rhuematologists phrase, not mine) causes me a lot of grief, my body is trying to eat itself, starting in the joints, and I am on a vigorous medication regimen to try and slow that down.  Even with being in a constant state of immuno-suppression, I rarely get sick (but when I do, I tend to get REALLY sick).  BabyBoy has had a number of ear infections that seem to be more related to physiology than to immunology, but all in all, he's a healthy little dude.

All eyes in a pale face. 

Also, he's sitting in a box.

Begin Rant.....
Last Sunday, a friend came over with his 13 month old to hang out with Hubby and BabyBoy while I went out to lunch and SAW A MOVIE with a girlfriend from work.   The played as toddlers do, passing toys back and forth, then passed out in BabyBoy's crib for a nap together.  On Monday, we got an e-mail: "Oh, I forgot to mention, our kid was running a fever yesterday - he just had a febrile seizure with a high fever, and the doctor thinks he has roseola."

Answer me this, internets.  WHO the FUCK brings a sick kid with a fever over to play?  As much as daycare rules annoy me when I get hit with them, they're there for a reason.  "24 hours without medication and without evidence of fever above 100 accompanied by: diarrhea or vomiting, earache, headache, signs of irritability or confusion, sore throat, rash, fatigue that limits participation in daily activities." Do I have to start requiring a doctor's note for playdates?

The thing that really chaps my ass is that this is not the first time this parental unit has brought plague-baby over to interact with others.  Does anyone remember the great stomach flu of 2011?  Yep. Plague-baby started that one too.  Oh, and it's the same couple that criticizes other parents on sleep-training and nutrition.
End Rant.

I should look at this as a positive, right?  Each infant sickness that he has builds his immune system and (theoretically) means one less cold/flu/infectious disease later.  I just hate that he's sick, and I can't help him, other than to administer Tylenol, cuddle him, make sure he drinks, and try to force food into his no-appetite mouth.  Yesterday I think he ate two pieces of apples, 3 french fries and two slices of mandarin oranges total, which is the complete opposite of our normal hoover-it-down-not-picky eater.

Not even mac and cheese balls could entice him to eat more!

Night time seems to be the worst for the fever.  Wednesday night he topped out at 103.3, last night it was 104.3.  I cradled his strong little body that was radiating SO much heat and waited for the Tylenol to work, while contemplating the best way to commit mariticide on my soundly asleep and snoring loudly husband, and I tried not to worry to much. 

My Mama used to sing a lullaby to me, best I can figure, it's a slightly lyrically-changed version of  a ballad written in 1873 called "Put My Little Shoes Away" .  I sing it to BabyBoy, because it's one of the few pieces of her I have left, but at the same time, it's a really shitty song to sing to a kid, sick or not.  I don't sing it to him when he's sick, it puts too much worry into my head and heart. 

Repeat after me: "We're entering day three of fever.  This will be done soon, he'll be fine, and we'll have a nice long weekend together."

Let's file this under "WTF, really?"

The other day, Hubby told me that I need to buy new sheets, because the current set is "ruined."  I asked him what he meant by "ruined", and he told me they're "just ruined".  I asked if he crapped the bed when I wasn't looking and the sheets took the brunt of it, and he said "no, they have a hole in them."

So I went and looked at the sheets. We've had a long-running battle about the state of his feet, particularly of the heels, and how he should just start getting pedicures, already.  Sure enough.  His feet at the 1,000 thread count egyptian cotton sheets.  They were shredeed right where his feet go, about a foot across the fitted sheet.  This isn't the first set of expensive sheets his feet have eaten, either.

I count my blessings, at least he trims his toenails, but heels that are so calloused and rough they will shred fabric over a period of time (these sheets are less than 2 years old, and super high quality) is just nasty. 

For our first wedding anniversary, we went down to the Oregon coast, to a little town called Manzanita.  I set us up with spa treatments as anniversary presents, and he flat out rebelled at the idea of a "pedicure".  This spa was smart, though.  They have a special "man foot treatment" which was a pedicure without buffing and painting the toenails.  I even got him some special pumic gel and a scrubber to make it easier to maintain the callous build up.  The bottle sits unopened in his medicine cabinet, the scrubber is still pristine in it's wrapping, and the sheets are "ruined."

Manzanita Beach.  Way nicer than gross feet.

I did a google search for images of "nasty feet" and, while I found many to choose from, I will not inflict any on you, dear reader.  It's bad enough I have it burned in my brain!

We are always comparing our own body parts to BabyBoy's, to see if there is some concrete contribution we've made in his gene pool.  BabyBoy likes to sleep like his Daddy, on his back, snoring, with one arm thrown over his face.  He sets his mouth in a determined little line when he's thinking hard about something, just like me.  On his feet, the second toenail (the one I call "home", because there's no "thumb, pointer, middle, ring, pinky" finger equivalent for toes, so I call them "Market, home, roast beef, none, wee wee weee".) grows out and bends over the end of the toe,  just like his Daddy, as well.  I hope this is not a genetic indicator that he will have nasty-assed feet as an adult.  If he does, I'm going to teach him the value of a good pedicure.

Thanks for your opinion, asshole.

Techinically, this should be a mommy blog post, but since I included "Asshole" in the title, and fully expect to exceed my unofficial "fuck's per page" (FPP) limit for that blog, I decided this is better suited for 'Still an Adult'.

Last week a friend shared that a mutual friend had maligned decisions I've made as a parent in regards to Babyboy's sleep schedule and sleep patterns.  I'll admit, 'malign' is probably a harsh word to assign to it, but it surely felt like it was said with that intent.  I'm sensitive about myself as a parent - I feel like I'm in this with no instruction manual, no feedback other than people sharing their personal opinions, and every decision I make is met with my own internal dialogue questioning the decision, as well as "are you sure?"'s from my husband, friends, well-meaning people on facebook, etc. I'm already prone to second guessing myself - I don't need commentary from the peanut gallery reinforcing that.

When I heard this criticism, I sort of lost my shit.  Here's the thing I've learned.  Every baby is different, and no one, no matter how well meaning, knows that baby as well as his or her own parents.  Decisions are made based on that personal knowledge of your child, and personal knowledge of your own family dynamic and those two things are weighed against the options, and you decide how to move forward that works best for those people actually involved.

It's true.  We have not done sleep training with BabyBoy.  We choose to take him out to dinner on a regular basis, and sometimes we even (GASP) MISS BEDTIME because of that.  It's our decision to make, and we're pretty lucky that our little guy rolls with it.  We're also lucky that our friends have been accomodating of earlier meeting times to try and keep bedtime in mind.  As a parent, you may have different priorities that work for your family dynamic, and that's fine.  But don't fucking hold up my decision as the wrong decision and use that to justify what works for you.  Grow a set of balls and say "thanks for the invite, but that doesn't work for us.", not "We don't agree with how Hubby & Rae do it."

I'm a good parent.  My little boy is happy, healthy, and well adjusted.  You're a good parent too.  Your child is happy, healthy and well adjusted. Congratulations to both of us!

Now keep your fucking opinions to yourself.

Welcome

In preperation for a new writing project starting in January, I've setup some space for my 'alter-ego'.  My other blog,  a mommy blog is where the trial and tribulations of being a parent will go, along with a lot of sweetness because I firmly believe I have the best baby in the world.  This blog, however, is where I can still be an adult.  Where I can get mad about stuff, or say Fuck too much, or share the occasional embarrasing and inappropriate story.  First content post coming soon!

Thanks for coming along!