Remember last year when Ethan was MediFlighted to Oakland Children's hospital? I was looking forward to a quiet holiday...
Tuesday morning we were about ready to leave, when Ethan ran across the kitchen, tripped and fell. Nothing new, here, happens redundantly often. However, he fell just close enough to the wall that he scuffed the side of his forehead. No blood or broken skin, no bruise even, and he calmed down quickly. He was. Good, so off we went. To be on the safe side, I told Ms. Joan (his daycare provider) what happened, and to keep and eye on him. I should have known...
Twenty minutes at the office and I get a text, Ethan threw up all over himself. I bomb out of the office and head to get him. By the time I got there, she had cleaned him up only for him to get sick all over again. He has no clothes, everything is nasty. He's on her couch wrapped in a towel happily watching cartoons. Yes, happily! I pack him up and we head to the ER, and halfway there he gets sick again.
Lucky thing about being a small kid with a head injury in the middle of the morning, the ER gets you in suuuuper quick!
They check him out, nothing of note, and send us home for me to keep a eye on him. Mostly, wake him every two hours all night and see if he acts like himself. They said, "usually, we ask questions to check long and short-term memory, but he's not even two yet. So..." That's not really helpful, people.
We went home,a don the kid with the now empty tummy is famished. This is the child who eats six meals a day and I can see his ribs! And he wants scrambled eggs, so I make them and put him down for his nap. I wake him halfway through, and he seems normal. An hour after that he comes out of his room. And he smells nasty. Scrambled eggs and stomach acid are a nasty combination. I finish cleaning that up in time for him to throw up all over both of us, followed by another quick clean-up before we rush back to the ER.
At which point, they look at me dumbfounded, "you fed him eggs!?!?" Yes, he was hungry, he wanted them, and nobody said anything about dietary restrictions, let alone the "only clear fluids" diet he was on for the day.
Some observation and anti-nausea meds and we were home again. Waking him up every two hours and testing his behavior was a picnic, let me tell you.
Wednesday he was fine, took him to Joan and spent the day baking. And waiting for the tree trimmer, who was four hours late, to come and save the huge tree in my yard. And the solar inspecter who was two hours early.
Thursday the boys had a cough, but it's nothing new. We've had the same darn cough for weeks. No fever or other complaints and we went to Tony's parents for the early Thanksgiving dinner. While we were there, Colling spiked a fever of 100.7. Of course. I took him and Tony home, and Ethan and I went to my parent's house for more festivities. We had a nice evening and came home around nine. Tony had to work, and my parents came and babysat for a bit while I went to the office to put out fires. Collins and Papa had a marvelous time playing with Auntie Emma's crayon maker. Collin just likes watching them melt, he couldn't care less about the rest of it.
Saturday we were busy trying to clean up my mess from Thankgiving baking and catch up on the obligatory housework.
Sunday we slept in a little bit, finally getting up around eight. I heard this funny noise in my yard, and thought it was the dogs. Then I heard it again. I opened the shutters to discover my back yard fence was on fire! Literally, on fire!
I yell at Tony to put on clothes and put it out, and instead he runs to the kitchen. Really?!?! I grab jeans of the floor, and the first shirt I see. To heck with a bra, there's no time, and who's going to see me? Bad assumption, there. Especially cause that shirt is a super stretchy/silky/form fitting number that's super cold. It gets worse, I promise.
When we bought the house, the old lady left a fire extinguisher. I have no idea how old it is, or if it works, but I grab and run. I hear Tony on the phone with 911. Duh! Fire extinguisher works! Too soon, however, it is empty. I run for a bucket. I find one in the garage with water already in it. You know, that bucket I washed out the poopy underwear and vomit covered clothes in but hadn't dumped into the toilet yet? That bucket.
I pour the bucket onto the fire, but it catches leaves for something, and pours all over me! I'm only wearing flip flops for footwear. I'm germy and disgusting. I'm wet. It's 30 outside. I'm too busy to be upset. Two guys in the apartment complex behind my house tell me they called the fire departments, and they stand and watch the top of my head above the fence running back and forth from the fire to the spigot.
Yes, we have a hose. No, I didn't think about it. I kept water-pairing it. I was actually doing fairly well, too, but the bamboo that a former Bhuddist neighbor planted had caught fire and was in the neighbor's yard out of the reach of me and my bucket.
Fire department shows up, and what do they want? A garden hose. Add insult to injury, four men are witnessing my self-inflicted, wintertime, wet t-shirt contest, and they're using my house and my water to put out the fire? Embarrassing!
How did it start? The obvious answer is the ash pile from our wood burning stove. However, the ash is alway cold when it goes out, and it had been at least a week since Tony had put anything out there. And freezing temperatures at night. Short answer, I have no idea.
Sunday we called our friend Dave, who brought a crew, to rebuild the fence. I supplied the pizza and coffee. Before hey got there, I had to grocery shop. En route, I was admiring the light refracting in the diamond of my engagement ring. It looked different. It look strange. My diamond is cracked!
I'm a mess and you can't take me anywhere! This week, I give up. I might just boycott Thanksgiving next year. But darn those pies were delicious! Apple pie cheesecake, my friends. That's my new staple.
