The Universe really owes me one after this last week.
Last Thursday I left town with the kids to visit my grandma, aunt and mom. I planned to drive 560 miles to Nebraska. From this you can clearly tell two things: first, I've never driven alone any further than Denver to Fort Collins. That's sixty-five miles and let me tell you I felt sorry for myself every time I made that drive. Second, I've never driven further than the grocery store alone with the two kids. I'm not sure what I thought. I mean, clearly I was completely unprepared. Any time I've ever done a long car trip I've been able to tolerate approximately two hours of highway driving before I'm actively making promises I can't keep to my copilot in order to switch spots. The drive to my grandma is 560 miles which is definitely more than two hours. So yeah, I was in trouble before I even started.
The thing about car trips though is they're so deceptive. Kids were secured, yummy snacks in the front seat, portable DVD player hooked up. I was ready. This was going to be fun! I was going to get to listen to anything I wanted! I was in charge of stopping for food and bathroom breaks! I was master of my destiny! And at first it was fun. It started to get less fun as I approached Fort Morgan which, depressingly, is only 97.3 miles from our house. Or, less than two hours. Or, still 462.7 miles from my destination in case you aren't good at math. I learned on this trip that my bladder is approximately the size of a tablespoon. Any bathroom stop required unloading both kids and herding Bear into the bathroom (mercifully, Bunny could stay strapped into her car seat which weighs approximately 26 pounds) and took roughly fifteen minutes. Anyway, with 462.7 miles to go things had progressed from "This is fun!" to "This is starting to be not so fun." I remember the exact time that it went from "Not so much fun" to "This flat-out sucks." It was at 3:44 PM, in Kearney, Nebraska. Or, still three hours from my destination. Shortly after getting to Kearney I got off I-80 and on to two lane county roads through a series of tiny towns. I know where creepy lives, and it is rural Nebraska. I got more and more nervous as the sun got lower. If Stephen King ever decides to stop setting all his books in Maine he should consider a town somewhere off US 30. Throughout this the kids were becoming increasingly irritable. What were we doing? Why were they strapped into their infernal car seats? Could they have more McDonalds? At roughly 6:45 PM we finally reached the home stretch and I am not kidding, I was white-knuckled with determination for the last 45 miles. I hear that athletes hit the wall after extended exercise and continue only by sheer force of will. That was me. I pulled into my grandma's parking lot at 7:30 PM with equal parts relief and dread at having to repeat the process in two days.
We stayed in a hotel and if you can believe it, it's actually not that much fun to sleep with a two-year-old. I was reminded why I no longer cosleep. So I spent the night waking up every fifteen minutes with a foot in my face or Bear's head two millimeters from mine or various other things that were not conducive to a good night's rest. There was one other slight problem. Thursday I woke up with a migraine flirting around the edges of my brain. Never one to let a neurological disorder dissuade me from the task at hand I set off anyway, armed with Excederin migraine which I popped freely throughout the day along with diet soda. So even under ideal sleeping arrangements I'm not sure I could have fallen asleep; I was too keyed up from an abundance of caffeine. So I got up (notice I didn't see "woke up") in the morning with the migraine still making its presence known combined with a profound lack of sleep. It was like a hangover but with zero point zero percent of the fun that generally accompanies a night of drinking. All day I continued to take Excederin and feel sorry for myself. I figured Friday night I would sleep better that night because no way could I sleep worse, right?
Right.
Friday night I laid down in relief hoping that I would feel better the next morning. Roughly twenty seconds after turning off the light I noticed that Bear was hot. Really hot. Like feverish hot. Generally this is exactly what you want to have happen when you're on a trip and 560 miles from home. Then he started coughing. Because I am paranoid mother, I read up on they symptoms of many, many childhood illnesses when Bear was small. Sometimes when I don't have anything special to worry about, I revisit those pages in "What to Expect: The First Year" as an outlet for my anxiety. His cough was a classic croup cough. So this was getting better and better. All night long he coughed but thankfully his fever went away. Once again there was no sleep for me, for him, or for Bunny. We were all having a great time! Saturday morning I woke up with two things: a full-fledged migraine and the certainty that I must get my children home. Obviously it would be preferable for us to apparate but since that only exists in Harry Potter, we had no choice but to drive. Grimly I loaded the kids into the car, careless about our snacks and leaving the DVD player hanging askew. I tell you, I counted every damn mile. When we finally got back to our house I would have gladly kissed the filthy garage floor but I was too tired.
All night long, Bear coughed and coughed and coughed. I set an alarm and checked on him every two hours since the more severe croup becomes, the more it affects a child's breathing. He did OK the next day but was still obviously really sick. I was getting nervous. Kent is a respiratory therapist but he was out of town for work so I wasn't sure if my mounting hysteria was well-placed or not. When he finally got back later Sunday night I could have collapsed in a puddle on the floor, I was so thankful. We put Bear to bed at his normal time and agreed we'd just continue to monitor him. Then he woke up gasping at 7:45 PM and in a semi-panic we loaded him and Bunny into the car and went to the Children's Hospital near our house. As we were walking in he was coughing and a clutch of nurses standing outside the doors chirped (almost in unison): "Sounds like someone has croup!" Yes, it does and I'll thank you not to be so cheerful. Bear had a couple breathing treatments (NOTE: toddlers LOVE having a breathing mask put over their face, especially when the stuff they breath in is a stimulant) and a dose of steroids which helped temporarily. Unfortunately they didn't help enough so he was admitted late Sunday night. Even though everyone was great and they were really trying to make us comfortable it does not escape you for a second that you are in a hospital and you are there because your sweet baby doesn't feel well. In fact, it rather sucks. They let us go early on Monday, most likely because Kent is a respiratory therapist and because we both gave Bear's doctor really good doe eyes.
I'll spare you a synopsis of the last few days. My only observation is that simply leaving the hospital doesn't equal full recovery. This might seem obvious but when you've spent time and money in a facility it seems like you should be owed good health. Alas that's not how it works. The last few days have been spent at home, primarily watching "Tangled" and "Toy Story 3" over and over while heading off 677 tantrums, mostly related to the refusal of foods containing high fructose corn syrup. I hope, hope, hope that Bear wakes up tomorrow recovered and we can get back to regularly scheduled programming.
And Universe, I prefer cash but I'll take a certified personal check.
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