Since last week’s trip to the emergency room, I cannot speak or write a single sentence without mentioning snot. Snot, snot, snot. We are swimming in it. We are riding glorious crests of mucus. We are rolling about upon yellow tides of ick.
We may also be a little crazed by exhaustion and Nyquil.
Connor started feeling better almost immediately after his post-ER doctor’s visit. Of course, this was the cue for my uninsured ass to come down with the crud. Never one to let silly things like germs get me down, I soldiered through until Michael had a full day off, then collapsed into bed with a nose full of
snot cement and a head full of Nyquil. Whee! Dizzy!
I slept for 17 hours. Seven. Teen. Seventeen hours of bizarre, hallucinatory dreams and sweet, sweet immobility. When I finally emerged from my cave, I was a completely new woman — I hadn’t realized how the late-night emergency room trip, plus two nights of almost no sleep while I cared for a very sick kid, had taken their toll. I was completely wiped out, which is probably why I got sick in the first place.
After my sleep-a-thon, Connor and I both felt much better. I spent the whole of the next day restoring the house to order, even going so far as to dust the fan blades and scrub the toilet. (I know. It’s crazy, the way I celebrate.) Connor raced gleefully around the house, undoing my recent living room-tidying no less than three times in his exuberant joy. He still had snot (snooooot!), but it was the clear, flowing kind rather than the yellow, nostril-sealing kind. We both appreciated his newly rediscovered breathing skills.
Of course, that was a day and a half ago. Now? Now I just wish he’d quit. Wiping. His nose. With his HANDS. He hasn’t had a cold in almost a year, the last one being when he was a wee scrap of a 20-month-old, when he was still foolishly unconcerned with autonomy. I wiped his nose roughly every five minutes in those days, calling it good as long as there was no snot on his lips or cheeks. Now, though, he is a big boy, who will do it himself, ALL BY HIMSELF, which means that he smears the stuff all over his face.
We tried the bulb syringe once. I think I will leave you with that image, an image of me cavalierly aiming the pointy end of the syringe at my squirmy, fiercely independent toddler’s left nostril as he tried to work out the frustration of five days’ bedrest and liquid-diet low blood sugar. I just don’t want to say what happened next.