Mom’s sick. Cue the tiny violins of pity. 

Nobody likes being sick, unless you’re one of those people who likes to fill their schedule with a series of doctor appointments. I hate going to the doctor. I like to think that I have a pretty good handle on all things health-related, and being somewhat mistrusting of Big Pharma and our broken medical system being truly invested in my health and well-being and not profits, I usually resort to one of the most terrifying tools available to humankind: WebMD. (Close second: Google)

So about a month ago, when I was taken down by the absolute worst sore throat imaginable, I carefully swallowed my pride and headed over to Twelve Corners Internal Medicine, which for you Rochester peeps is not actually located anywhere near the Twelve Corners in Brighton. I get lost every single time I go there. The office is located in this huge Walmart-esque medical complex at the corner of Westfall and Clinton, and I always drive around that parking lot for fifteen minutes before I find the right building. Unbeknownst to me I was also running a fever of about 104, so besides being directionally challenged I was also somewhat delirious. My doctor took one look at my tonsils and actually CALLED THE OTHER DOCTOR into the room to take a look. To everyone’s disbelief two rapid strep tests came back negative, but in a classic “just-in-case” move I was prescribed an antibiotic and told to call back if things didn’t improve. 

Of course things did improve, albeit very slowly, which made me think that the infection was probably viral in nature, but oh well. I returned to my regularly scheduled life as soon as possible, fortified with coffee and ibuprofen. I started running again, which for some reason was wearing me out quicker than before. Three weeks after the initial illness, I had a repeat of the same exact symptoms: fever, sore throat, swollen glands, exhaustion. Back to bed. Recovery was quicker this time, and once my symptoms were gone I was back at it – piano teaching, accompanying, running, driving everywhere, chores, etc. 

Then I contracted mastitis. 

Back to antibiotics. Back to bed. Back to feeling like an absolute lump on a log. Few illnesses find me shaking from head to toe with chills underneath a blanket, but mastitis is THE WORST. Not to mention that it usually doesn’t strike past the first few months postpartum, and here I was with an almost one-year-old. It seemed to resolve itself after about 24 hours of being on drugs, so that was a good thing, but now Frederick was sick. Upset tummy, no appetite, fever, and general irritability. Hell hath no fury like a sick baby. His sleeping was a mess, and both Daniel and I were completely exhausted after being up multiple times during the night for several nights in a row. 

By Monday I was feeling back to normal, well enough to go for my morning run, and Freddie seemed better too. Whatever bug had ravaged his system was now manifesting in a classic roseola rash all over his back and belly, so my decision to keep him away from everyone and every living thing for the past several days had been a good one. We ran some errands, came home and ate lunch, and while both little ones napped, I stretched out to catch a few winks myself. 

I woke up feeling achy and more tired than when I had first laid down. Popped some ibuprofen, because kids still need to be fed and bathed and diapered, and dishes still need to be washed. By bedtime I was pretty sure I was down for the count again. During the night I woke up in a hot sweat, and when I checked my temperature in the morning, it was a wonderful 102 degrees. 

Damn it. 

Back to the doctor. This time he ordered a blood test, because obviously something funky was going on, but other than that and strict orders to rest, there wasn’t much he could do. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening on the couch, alternately sleeping and watching “Hoarders” on Netflix, because one should always watch uplifting shows when you’re sick. And by “Hoarders” being uplifting, knowing that I do a pretty decent job of sorting through the crap that enters these walls makes me feel wonderful. 

Nobody likes a TMI post, and maybe I’ve already crossed the line, but it was a crappy night, and aside from painting both my fingernails and toenails and writing a blog post, I’ve pretty much done nothing except plan my perfect Pinterest wardrobe and check Facebook. I’m hoping to get the rest of my lab results back this afternoon; my CBC showed high levels of white blood cells (shocking), but that I am definitely not anemic, which as a vegan I am always concerned about. Lately I’ve been toying with reintroducing some animal protein into my diet, and I ate a fried egg for breakfast yesterday morning because nothing else sounded good. Eventually one gets sick of being sick, and I’ve always maintained that if something isn’t working, it’s time to try something different. Whether that means insisting upon a 9:30 bedtime, or taking a break from running for a little while (sob), or eating a chicken leg once in a while, I’m open to possibilities. I’ve been sick off and on for an entire month, and I just don’t have time for this. 

Not everything is difficult…

…however, I should probably also post the picture where he’s pinching the skin of my breast between his thumb and index finger, his favorite thing to do these days. But for just a moment, let’s pretend that at least breastfeeding is still all warm and fuzzy and cuddly and perfect. 

I’m tired. 

You know that feeling when you’ve been going all day long, and you’ve finally had the chance to brush your teeth, put on your pajamas, and climb into that glorious piece of neglected furniture known as BED?

It’s even better if there are clean sheets, but I’ll settle for the bed having been made, and not needing to shovel a pile of clean laundry off my side onto a different flat surface, or back into the laundry basket where it’s been for the past three days. 

For the last several months, that glorious feeling has been marred by two things:

1) the knowledge that in about six hours, I’ll have to get up and do it all over again, fueled by too much coffee

2) a baby that wakes up the minute I’m horizontal

We have six people living in a three-bedroom house. Just how it is, and we make it work like so many other things in our day-to-day existence. Boy No. 1 gets his own room because he never learned how to share anything, plus he’s the oldest. The girls share a room with bunk beds, too many books, pairs of tights, and stuffed animals. Daniel and I get the largest bedroom, which also houses the youngest member of the circus, Mister Frederick, the aforementioned wakeful baby. On one hand, it’s nice to not have to travel far to get him when he cries during the night. I have also enjoyed the luxury of us both falling back to sleep and waking up ALMOST RESTED after snuggling for who knows how long. Those days are coming quickly to an end, though, because Mister Frederick is almost one year old, and everyone knows that one-year-olds pretty much never stop moving ever, even when they are sleeping, thus rendering an almost restful night null and void. 

Anyway, there is nothing more demoralizing than collapsing into bed at the end of a long day that began somewhere between 4:30 and 5:30am, only to be immediately roused upon lying down by a fussy baby standing up in the crib and howling “Nah nah nah nah NAH” with increasing degrees of urgency. 

This too shall pass, I know, but in the thick of it all…I’m getting too old for this nonsense.