Long Day's Journey Into Crap.
What a fucking lousy day.
First, Sarah wakes up at about 4:45 a.m. It didn't wake us up though, because we were already up with Hunter. "It's going to be a long day," I tell Eric, but I have no idea, because then Sarah starts throwing up.
Luckily for me, Eric decides to call in sick to work to help me with Sarah, who promptly uses up most of her wardrobe sucking down water and puking it back up before her doctor's office finally opens at 9. They tell us to give her Sprite and Pedialyte and wait it out. But we don't have any, so Eric leaves to buy some, which makes Sarah scream at the top of her lungs. Which makes Hunter scream at the top of his lungs too.
Sarah doesn't understand that she's sick and can't eat all day like she usually does, which means we face hours of begging for cereal bars and milk. She cries when we try to get her to drink the Pedialyte. We try to give her Sprite in a sippy cup, but (not ever having allowed her to drink soda before) we didn't know that carbonation and sippy cups don't mix. Two squirts of warm Sprite in the eye later, she's inconsolable about that too.
Finally, we manage to get her to down enough Pedialyte (or the Target generic kind, anyway, which looks unsettlingly like that orange glucose solution they make you drink for the diabetes test) that we're no longer concerned about a midday trip to the emergency room.
If you've never had to try to eat breakfast and/or lunch around a stomach-flu-ridden toddler who must be temporarily denied food for her own good, I recommend you avoid it at all costs. The guilt alone can age you ten years.
By dinnertime, Sarah's recovered enough that we think she's ready to move on to what is so thoughtfully called the "BRAT" diet (bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast). The toast and rice go down fine, but she's unwilling even to entertain the possibility of applesauce.
Sarah then inadvertently ruins her after-dinner bath with an unexpected poop, which riddles her with guilt ("Sorry, Mommy!") and calls for Eric to scour the tub and me to attempt re-washing her sponge-bath style.
Now she's asleep, which is a positive sign, but unfortunately some asshole has decided that the best way to resolve his differences with whoever lives across the street from us is to scream at them and punctuate each scream by breaking their windows with a baseball bat.
So I called the cops but somebody else already called them. In fact, as soon as I said why I was calling, the woman on the line said "Oh, you live on [street name], right? They're already on their way."
Have I mentioned that I fucking hate this neighborhood?
Oh, and now Hunter won't eat and won't go to sleep. Must attend to that now, I suppose. Good night and may the deity of your choice bless.
First, Sarah wakes up at about 4:45 a.m. It didn't wake us up though, because we were already up with Hunter. "It's going to be a long day," I tell Eric, but I have no idea, because then Sarah starts throwing up.
Luckily for me, Eric decides to call in sick to work to help me with Sarah, who promptly uses up most of her wardrobe sucking down water and puking it back up before her doctor's office finally opens at 9. They tell us to give her Sprite and Pedialyte and wait it out. But we don't have any, so Eric leaves to buy some, which makes Sarah scream at the top of her lungs. Which makes Hunter scream at the top of his lungs too.
Sarah doesn't understand that she's sick and can't eat all day like she usually does, which means we face hours of begging for cereal bars and milk. She cries when we try to get her to drink the Pedialyte. We try to give her Sprite in a sippy cup, but (not ever having allowed her to drink soda before) we didn't know that carbonation and sippy cups don't mix. Two squirts of warm Sprite in the eye later, she's inconsolable about that too.
Finally, we manage to get her to down enough Pedialyte (or the Target generic kind, anyway, which looks unsettlingly like that orange glucose solution they make you drink for the diabetes test) that we're no longer concerned about a midday trip to the emergency room.
If you've never had to try to eat breakfast and/or lunch around a stomach-flu-ridden toddler who must be temporarily denied food for her own good, I recommend you avoid it at all costs. The guilt alone can age you ten years.
By dinnertime, Sarah's recovered enough that we think she's ready to move on to what is so thoughtfully called the "BRAT" diet (bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast). The toast and rice go down fine, but she's unwilling even to entertain the possibility of applesauce.
Sarah then inadvertently ruins her after-dinner bath with an unexpected poop, which riddles her with guilt ("Sorry, Mommy!") and calls for Eric to scour the tub and me to attempt re-washing her sponge-bath style.
Now she's asleep, which is a positive sign, but unfortunately some asshole has decided that the best way to resolve his differences with whoever lives across the street from us is to scream at them and punctuate each scream by breaking their windows with a baseball bat.
So I called the cops but somebody else already called them. In fact, as soon as I said why I was calling, the woman on the line said "Oh, you live on [street name], right? They're already on their way."
Have I mentioned that I fucking hate this neighborhood?
Oh, and now Hunter won't eat and won't go to sleep. Must attend to that now, I suppose. Good night and may the deity of your choice bless.