Yesterday it finally happened: I became a real parent.
I have seen it mentioned many times that one is not truly a parent until one has been vomited upon and been to the emergency room. I have disregarded this cliche for the past almost-four years but obviously did not dodge it completely because it was still there in a dark corner of my head as I pulled the vomity shirt over my head and prepared to call the nurseline for advice.
But this is not the post I want to write. It is a boring story with not much humour in it; yesterday Fresco spent the day with a sudden, bad cough and trouble breathing, he ended the evening with a hysterical crying/coughing fit and then blew chunks all over me. I put him to bed and he went to sleep and then I called the nurseline. The nurseline nurse said, with that slow, cautious tone, â€œI am a little worried about him actuallyâ€ which, in my experience, is unlike a nurseline nurse, so I took him out of bed and we went to the local ER and were there for 3 hours and he doesn’t have an infection or asthma, but I’m glad I went because I wouldn’t have slept if we’d stayed home either, The End.
Oh, also; chest x-rays on children (& possibly adults?) are fairly terrifying, in a â€œBrazilâ€ (the movie) kind of way.
The post I wanted to write? I was thinking about one about Fresco turning 22 months old, which means he is 2 months short of his second birthday and older now than Trombone was when he became an older brother. I had also been thinking about older brother / younger brother dynamics. I am toying with the idea of giving up dairy again – excellent blog-fodder and also, relevant to the blog’s title – but I’ve already blown that for today because all there was to eat in the fridge was leftover lasagna and what was I going to do, ignore it? Then there was the post about writing and how hard it is to work the fiction muscles after so long working the non-fiction muscles. (think: those guys who have the big upper bodies but tiny little thighs and look like cartoon characters when they walk.)
(Or, for that matter, the guy I saw at the Safeway parking lot the other day who walked like he’d been riding a motorcycle for about 15 years straight, which waddling â€œI just peed my pantsâ€ look I have dubbed â€œHarley Crotchâ€ unless someone else has already come up with that one. â€œHarley Crotchâ€ isn’t contagious but it is conducive to slow-growing fungi, etc. It is possible that only someone who has lived in downtown Vancouver and/or hates motorcycles will find this amusing.)
Because of the events of yesterday and last night, though, I have only had 6 hours of sleep, which, it turns out, is not enough anymore; I enjoy my nightly 8ish hours thankyouverymuch and I have a similar cough to Fresco’s but I don’t intend to vomit – and at least now we have an inhaler in the house in case my own airways become constricted. I can hear Trombone in his room engaging in some raucous pretend play to rid himself of sick-younger-brother frustration; something about a wagon going over a cliff and a young boy landing ass over teakettle (not his words) in the prickly bushes, which means he is not napping, though he could surely use it, and which also means that I only have until 2:30 to do whatever I need to do without the company of at least one child.
So this will have to do.
In sum: I am tired. And grateful for our health care system and for coffee and for another sunshiney day that meant I could sit without my jacket on and drink coffee while the children dug in the woodchip playground, the faint cacophony of â€œMine! MINE! MINE!â€ enveloped by the mist of my reverie.
Also, I would like to share this picture of Morgan Freeman, which is what I keep coming back to for another dose of strength until later today when I can eat an inhuman portion of oven fries and go to bed.