In which I am incredibly thankful that I decided to pull the rug out of the living room before I went to bed

Last night, we stayed up late, moving the living room rug to our bedroom. The weather has been so cold that bare floors are just not an option anymore, so we decided to get a new rug for the living room, and use the current living room rug in our room to try to keep it slightly warmer then the outdoor temperature. Not much, just something. Just a nod to the fact that we actually had walls and floors and windows and a roof and all of that good stuff. Things that really should keep the room vaguely warmer then, say, the driveway. It seemed to do the trick. So after getting the rug moved, and furntiure repositioned in our room, we decided to leave the living room dismantled until we brought home a new rug the next day. Exhausted, we collapsed into bed, in our new slightly warmer bedroom. It was thrilling.

At about 3:30 we heard "the voice"

The little voice, from the side of the bed. Quavering. "Daddy? Mama?" (sob, cough cough gag) "My froat hurts."

Oh dear.

We both got out of bed, and went running in different directions. One to examine the sore throat, one in search of Motrin. Parenting is never more of a team sport then during a middle-of-the-night illness.

With Motrin found and throat examined, Lucy snuggled up on the sofa and watched "Suite Life on Deck" (which led to some significant gagging - on my part.) About an hour later, she sat up. "Mama, I have to go to the bathroom, can you pause the movie?" As I leaned forward to hit the pause button, I heard a cough and a splash. And suddenly my right foot was warm. And it dawned on me - more slowly then it should have - that Lucy was standing there throwing up. No warning, no hesitation, no run for the bathroom. She calmly stood up, opened her mouth, and let 'er rip.

I grabbed the quilt and held it under her chin, murmering soothing things to her like "It's OK." and "My goodness sweetie!" and, after a few minutes, "Sam. Hey, SAM! SAMI I NEED YOU NOW." Poor Sami came staggering out of the bedroom trying to hold his robe closed, and got a good idea of what was going on. He headed for the kitchen trashcan, and in the rush to get it, he slid, sideways, skidding on one hip across the wood floor until he came to a stop lying on his side, with his head under a barstool, still clutching his robe around himself.

Lucy did not pause, did not look up from the Job At Hand, which was, apparently, to empty the contents of her stomach onto my floor.

I held the quilt steady and glanced up. "What the hell are you doing" I snapped, as though he was trying out some new choreography. "Would you get up and stop fucking around?"

"I SLIPPED" Sami protested, as he scrambled to his feet and made another attempt to get to the trashcan.

He raced towards us, holding the can out in front of him like he was passing off a baton in a relay race. I traded him one wadded up quilt, and smoothly switched to holding the bin in front of Lucy, who was still totally calm, and totally puking.

He headed for the bathroom to dump the quilt in the shower. I followed with Lucy, who had stopped hurling and was now full of wonder at the turn of events.

"I got puke on my jammies." she announced.

"Sure did!" I replied cheerfully.

"My tummy feels MUCH better now."

"I am so glad sweetheart. Let's get those jammies off, OK?"

So we took off the jammies and washed hands and Sami found clean jammies and while she finished washng up Sami and I started spraying every surface in the house with Lysol. Because clearly, Lysol was in order.

As we wiped and scrubbed and sprayed and rinsed, Lucy slowly got dressed, and waited patiently for the all clear. I dried the floor and got the movie going again. I brought a clean blanket. Sami got back in bed. I lay down on the couch in the now-freezing living room with a cold (oh so cold) wooden floor.

At 8am, I woke up and surveyed the scene. Lucy, still awake, now joined by Max. The laptop battery had run out, so they were both just sitting there quietly, Lucy giving Max the blow by blow recap of the evening's excitement. I called the doctor and we headed to town, got her checked out complete with chest x-ray and stickers for being a good patient. We bought a new rug to put down in the living room and returned home in the rain. I am going to go grab a nap now, though I must admit I am still wary of hearing a meek voice and a muffled cough in the distance, through my sleepy haze. But god knows I am not letting her into bed with me, man. I have fallen for that one before. Besides, I have a new rug in there.

Taking to my bed

I have, more then once in the past week thankyouverymuch, taken to my bed. First, it was because I was exhausted from a long and tense night at work. That was followed by a draining series of emails and conversations with my son's teachers and various friends and family. Then, of course, there was the great tsunami of 2010 which came hot on the heels of a late night at work. And now, it's 59 degrees outside, and 61 degrees INSIDE my home on a blustery, rainy day here in Hawaii. Yes Hawaii. Yes 59 degrees.

Yes.

So I am taking to my bed yet again - not just to keep my feet from burning with cold, but to try to catch a quick nap, something I always feel like I need when I am cold and tired.

As an added bonus, today I had an appointment with the nurse practitioner at my Gynocologist's office. My Obstetrician/Gynocologist. What that means is I just had to spend an hour surrounded by women in various stages of pregnancy, and recovery from their pregnancy, and their cute little babies.

Awful.

Terrible Stuff.

You know how pediatrician's offices schedule well-child visits first thing in the morning, before all the sick kids start showing up? They should do that with the OB/GYN office too. If you are there for strictly gynecological reasons - especially due to some sort of traumatic or untimely event - you should have a special time set aside, where you can go to these visits without the attendant emotional angst that leaves you wanting to wrap yourself up in exam table paper, and rock back and forth in the stirrups - which was how the Nurse Practitioner found me today.

I guess I'm STILL not quite over the hysterectomy, folks.

Sorry about that. I'm getting there. I mean, I CANCELLED my appointment altogether last year, so this is progress ! And the visit itself went fine, only one person asked me when my last period was (gosh, the answer "2005" just never fails to get a shocked look !), I got poked and prodded and felt up like a teenager in the backseat of a Subaru (not that I would know anything about THAT.) Everything checked out just fine, and after a brief conversation about extra calcium and bone scans, I was on my way. Back through the dreaded waiting room (avoid all eye contact. AVOID IT.) Down the stairs, out the door, hightail it to the safety of Henny the MiniCooper - a car I would never be able to own if I was even possibly fertile, because there is just no way to get an infant seat in there and still fit behind the steering wheel.

I drove off unemcumbered by diaper bags or bottles or screeching sobs from the backseat. I listened to NPR. I ran a few quick errands, and I headed home. To bed. To count my blessings, warm my tootsies, and take a nap I wouldn't have been able to take if I had a new baby in the house.

And I am almost able to accept my menopausal, post-hysterectomy, crone-y self. Almost.