Bonding

It’s early. An hour at which no one should be awake and moving except paperboys and roosters. I’m lying in a small bed with my 3 year old Little Dude and the invisible flu bug he brought home from preschool, which he kindly and unintentionally shared with me.

He's tired, hot and achy but doesn't know how to express what his body is feeling. Facing each other, I notice he’s grasping one of his beloved Hot Wheels tightly in each hand. For strength or comfort, they are with him. As am I. I subtly turn on the white noise machine again, hoping it will coax a few more minutes of sleep out of him for his weary body. And mine, as well. I’ve gotten used to running on empty, but doing so while fighting off illness is a different battle. Another hour of sleep right now would be better than winning the lottery. And I could really use the money.

As the sound of artificial waves crashing upon a distant artificial beach repeats, I pick up my iPhone and sigh as I look at the ridiculously low numbers its clock is displaying.  It's so early that my friends 3 hours ahead on the East Coast haven’t yet begun sharing their pictures of omelets or tales of getting stuck in traffic on Facebook to entertain me.

Resting our stuffy heads on fluffy adjoining pillows, I hope that the source of the flu was at least fun for him while being an evil conduit. Was it the swings on the playground or the school’s lunchroom? Or the grocery store cart’s handle?  We’ll never know.

Though I hope for more rest, as I was just up feeding his newborn brother an hour ago, I know it's unlikely any time in the foreseeable future. As my eyelids bounce heavily, simultaneously trying to sleep and stay awake, I feel something rolling up slowly up my neck like a tarantula in a bad horror movie would. Thankfully it’s only a Hot Wheels monster truck cruising before parking on my congested scalp.

I put down my iPhone, as it needs rest too, and watch my son. He looks at me as we cough together.

This is bonding.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

When the doctor finally discharged me he repeatedly stressed one word: rest. He’d had me on 24-hour I.V. fluids for nearly a week and though my body was rehydrated, it was completely listless. Mononucleosis sucks. Especially when you are 17 years old and summer is rapidly approaching. Doubly so if you have an overseas trip scheduled 6 weeks to the day after you are hospitalized.  I knew there was no way I was going to make it onto that plane.

When I returned home from the hospital, the extent of my daily activity consisted of waking up in the morning, going downstairs and flopping down on the couch in front of the TV. All day. Every day. Until it was time for bed when I would sluggishly ascend the stairs to rest some more.  

I knew I would miss the last month of school, which you might think is every teenager’s fantasy.  But two factors made this situation infinitely less than desirable. Like the fact that I couldn’t really eat because my throat was so swollen that simply breathing became a challenge. Or that we didn’t have cable.

I had a set routine, though I don’t remember its exact sequence now. My days were filled with our local Channel 19’s run through classic sitcoms. I didn’t get to hang with my friends at school, so I made new friends to keep me company through my misery. There was Lucy and Gomer, Mr. Belvedere and The Fonz. And especially the Mayberry crew.

Had I been born 20 years later I’d have been texting and tweeting to keep up with the outside world. Instead, I traveled back in time. To simpler worlds and situations that were neatly wrapped up in 22 minutes, accompanied by endless ads for Life Alerts and Life Insurance.  My life should have been beginning, but it felt like it was ending. I had to go on that trip, but how could I plan to go hiking through the desert when a trip to the bathroom left me winded?

I took my recuperation very seriously. I drank at least two giant jugs of Gatorade per day for their electrolytes. I ingested steroids in the kind of doses that people with serious maladies are given. Over the next few weeks I lost 30 pounds, which would be wonderful now but was scary then.

The doctors tried to give me hope that I’d make it onto that plane, but I doubted them. I was pessimistic and felt entitled to be given how miserable I felt every day. Since talking was painful, I limited mine as much as possible. The anguish of isolation did not help.

Finally, with about 10 days until the trip I went to see my Infectious Disease doctor to get the verdict. Nurses checked my vitals and drew 11 vials of blood. Then the doctor ran the most important test he could: asking me if I wanted to go. I did. And so I went. 

We Hop To IHOP

He had a cold. I had an idea. After several days with a runny nose I decided to venture out with the Little Dude for a dinner of warm comfort food. I know it usually makes me feel better when I’m sick, but would it do the same for him?

Knowing what a picky eater he is, my options were limited. I’d heard that the local IHOP has a “kids eat free” deal if an adult eats. I hedged my bets that he’d eat, popped some precautionary Tums and headed to a place which apparently takes Dr. Seuss a bit too literally for my taste.

The sun was setting as we drove. I’d never been to this location before and wasn’t sure exactly where it was. Fortunately the neon-blue sign was so bright that it looked like a post-apocalyptic Smurf village, so I easily found my way as I pulled off the freeway. We grabbed a booth near the front and I tried to guess which method of distraction I would need to utilize first. Was it the crayons on the table? The books I brought? Telling him the menu was a picture book and he should try to figure out the story? (Spoiler Alert: when you get all the way to the end, someone joins Weight Watchers.)  

Since I hadn’t been to an IHOP in a very long time I figured I should look at the menu. Thanks to the new regulations that forces restaurants to list the caloric content of everything they serve, I figured I’d skip the tempting looking “Chicken and Waffles”.  And only partially because I don’t want to get a prescription for Lipitor this week.

I ordered the Little Dude some silver dollar pancakes and myself a salad, figuring it’d be hard for them to mess that up or figure out a way to deep-fry it. (It turns out I was wrong, but I’ll get to that.) I’m not generally a big entrée- salad orderer.  But after seeing that their chicken sandwiches contained almost as many calories as Shaquille O’Neal eats in a month, I could feel my arteries harden slightly just from perusing the menu  & went with the leafy stuff.

After just a few minutes, his plate of 5 mini-pancakes was delivered and the server told me my salad would be right up. The Little Dude’s eyes widened like Tim Tebow’s at a strip club as he looked excitedly at what lay in front of him. Though he has never so much as tasted a chicken nugget, French fry or bite of pizza he LOVES breakfast food. So much so that Mrs. Dude has become a pancake and waffle-making master. If there is ever an Iron Chef: Flapjack Edition, I’m going to sign her up.  

As he watched me slice his pancakes with eager eyes,  the Little Dude spotted something he’d never seen before across the table. In addition to the usual “brown” (maple) syrup, there was also “red” (strawberry), “blue” (blueberry) and “black” (boysenberry) varieties.  He quickly became fixated on the red one and begged me to use it, so I poured a little bit on a small piece for him as a sample. As the red lava hit his tongue, it was immediately rejected like a Kardashian by Harvard.  I doused the rest of his pancakes with his beloved brown syrup and watched him go to town. 

A few minutes later, I asked the server again where my salad was.  The restaurant was three-quarters empty and we were sitting parallel to the kitchen, which I could tell wasn’t busy as I watched the bored chefs juggling eggs.  I started to wonder if they had to dispatch someone to the nearest grocery store because they don’t usually stock vegetables at IHOP due to their infrequent use.  As the Little Dude polished off the last of his fluffy circles of Dr. Atkins’ mortal enemy, I finally received my bowl of greens, chicken and cheese.  A mere 25 minutes after ordering. It tasted exactly as you’d expect a Chicken Caesar Salad to taste at IHOP.  But as I wolfed it down, I saw the glazed look of a satiated toddler sitting across from me and knew that he had indeed been comforted. Mission accomplished.

Where do you go, or what do you eat, when you want comfort food? 

You Make Me Sick

Just 10 days shy of the Little Dude’s 2^nd birthday we had a big “First” milestone this weekend. And everyone has been shocked to hear that we got by this long without it happening already.  After skating by for 721 days unscathed BC somehow managed to acquire his first fever. 

We took BC to the park on Saturday morning where he ran around for a while and went on the slide about 62 times.  We hoped to tire him a bit before taking him on a really fun errand: quality time at the Sprint store.  Obviously we didn’t spend enough time beforehand at the park, because he proceeded to run around the store and pick up chics for 2 solid hours afterward. And I got to be the chaser.  

Needless to say when we left the store, I was tired and hungry.  But I’m an old Dude.  I looked at BC in his car seat and his eyes were glazed and he was starting to doze off, which is not something he normally does in the car. In fact he rarely does it when we want him to (like on a long car ride), but sometimes does it when we don’t want him to, like in this circumstance before lunch.  I reached back and touched his leg which felt like it was on fire.  If it was any hotter I probably could’ve fried bacon on it.  

When we got home, I dug the infant thermometer out of my makeshift medical kit. The only other things in there are a couple Q-tips and a pack of Juicy Fruit* so it was easy to locate. We’ve used it a couple times when we thought he was sick, only to be disappointed by a reading of 98.6. One thing I’ve learned about kids and thermometers: they generally don’t get along.  

*Side note, what kind of fruit is Juicy Fruit supposed to taste like? I've never figured it out. 

Knowing he wasn’t feeling well we thought he might be easygoing about having his temp taken  this time. In the past he’s acted like fraternity kid on a mechanical bull: flailing and bucking to the best of his ability but in the end standing no chance against the bigger stronger opponent.  Nope, same thing.  

The unfortunate thing about trying to take a 2 year old’s temp is that he doesn’t understand that he could be dealing with a much less attractive option.  Since he’s not quite old enough for the oral thermometer the best option is under the arm pit.  Well, actually the doctor said there is a better option in terms of accuracy but it’s really not a better option for either the child or the parent. Or the thermometer.

We finally got the reading and it said 101. Uh oh. Weekend plans were suddenly 86’d. Too bad, because we were supposed to go watch the Ohio State/Wisconsin game at a Badger friend’s house.  I missed my chance to rub Buckeye victory in her face.  

The strange thing about a sick kid is he doesn’t know he’s supposed to change his routine and relax.  If an adult discovers his temp is even 98.7, he’s going to call off work for 3 days. With kids you need to lasso them in to force them to chill out.  I learned that Popsicles make good lure.

After sleeping for 11 hours overnight I figured he’d be feeling better today, but alas the temp lingers.  He ran around this morning like Lindsay Lohan at Kleptomaniacs Anonymous. Full speed.  He normally naps for about 3 hours. Today I spent the better part of 2 hours getting him to nap for less than 1. Clearly not effective nap time for him -- or me.  After trying to get him to nap for that long, I suddenly needed one.

Halloween is looming and I don’t think he knows what’s at stake if he’s sick. My chocolate supply for the next 3 months.  So I hope that he gets a good night sleep and tomorrow feels like a brand new Dude.  

Thanks for reading The Dude of the House! Tell your friends... 

--JJ aka The Dude of the House