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[ CONTESTANT #3 ] MEWLING AND PUKING IN THE NURSE'S ARMS, AND ALL OVER THE REST OF THE HOUSE, TOO.
Although there have been some pretty close seconds, my worst "mom" day occurred about nine years ago. Our daughter was 3 years old and our son just 4 weeks old. My son was born in mid-December, so my husband was able to take almost three weeks off following his birth by combining vacation days with company holidays. Overall, that time was uneventful and I felt very pampered having him there to help. Shortly after he returned to work, he had to leave town for a week. Needless to say, I was panicking at the thought of managing on my own. And sure enough, soon after my husband left, my 3 year old climbed into bed with me saying her stomach hurt. As she lay next to me, her breath had that undeniable "Strep-y" stench, and her forehead was so hot, you could have fried an egg on it. So I got up, and off to the pediatrician we went. Sitting in the crowded pediatrician's office, I began feeling the tide of panic rising. "What if the baby catches some horrible germ in this infection-laden waiting room? Oh my God, he's barely had any immunizations yet!" I hunched over his sleeping body in the baby carrier, all the while glancing furtively around me, trying not to appear too obviously overprotective. The pediatrician confirmed that my daughter had Strep, and added, "Her stomach is really rumbling, so I wouldn't be surprised if she got a little diarrhea along with the Strep." Oh great! But, I kept reassuring myself that we would get through this just fine. I decided to take both kids to my parents while I got the prescription filled, since I didn't want to take any chances of having the diarrhea strike in the pharmacy -- especially the way my luck was going. I dropped both kids off with my parents, being sure to nurse the baby right before I left, since I didn't have any bottles with me. I got the prescription filled and returned within 45 minutes. As I drove up my parents' driveway, my mom is standing at the door with my wailing son in her arms and a desperate look on her face. "He's been screaming the whole time! He acts like he's starving!" Aging a few years every minute, I nursed him again and loaded up the kids and headed home. My daughter fell asleep on the couch and then woke up about 30 minutes later absolutely burning up. Her temperature had now climbed up to 104 degrees, so I gave her fever medicine and her antibiotic, and put her in the bathtub. By now, the baby was crying to be fed again, so I sat on the lid of the toilet and I tried nursing the baby while trying to get my poor feverish 3 year old to sponge herself! "Put water on your arms, honey," I kept encouraging her. She was so sick that she just sat there in the water with her flushed face staring pathetically up at me. I guess this would be a good time to mention that the baby was having this vomiting problem that was worsening by the day. As it turned out, two weeks later, he would be diagnosed with pyloric stenosis (a condition where the muscle at the end of the stomach is too thick and prevents the food from passing through), and would undergo surgery on his stomach. So, as you can guess, as I'm sitting there on the toilet seat nursing him, he starts to vomit. Then, the vomit starts coming out of his nose. As I ran down the hall with him over my arm to get the bulb syringe, he continues to choke and vomit. All down the hallway carpet were little puddles of it, actually spaced rather evenly. Once I got his nose cleared out with the bulb syringe, he was OK. But, I was over being in charge. I picked up the phone and called my parents and my sister answered. As soon as she asked me what was wrong, I
started to cry. "She's so sick and the baby is throwing up and I haven't
eaten or gone to the bathroom for over six hours (a long time for a
postpartum/nursing mom!) and I need help, waaaaaaaa!" So, my sister came
over and spent the night. She sat on
the couch with my daughter and held the baby while I sat at the table and ate
an olive loaf sandwich with trembling hands. It doesn't sound like much now,
but having my sister there with me and being able to eat that olive loaf
sandwich for those few moments was a deliverance from that
dreadful day. And, obviously I survived. I even had another baby boy four
years later. But this is the story I drag out when swapping dramatic
stories of life in the trenches of motherhood.
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