1. My in laws departed at 11:12 PM on Tuesday night for DC and then from there, my mother in law returned to Africa and my brother in law returned to Calgary. I enjoy them immensely but having six Africans with you in a two bedroom apartment for 9 days should be a reality tv show. The survival kind, where at the end, there is only one sane person left. It would not have been me.
2. As they were packing, I gave Adam some “interior” pieces of a KFC breast. I knew full well the breading had egg in it and thought I was safe by stripping off (read: eating) the breading and giving him pieces from the inside. Within five minutes, he was running around, eyes watering, panicking, begging for a drink of water or milk or something and tried several times to vomit. Totally my fault. I was too wrung out exhausted to really think it through and really I know better. I gave him Benadryl and he felt better in about 10 minutes.
3. He felt better that is until the Benadryl wore off and he sat bolt upright in bed and barfed all over me at 5:45 AM. I cancelled swim lessons, peeled off everything foul, gave him more Benadryl, and we slept until noon.
4. I spent from 12 noon until 2 PM helping a rather helpless preschooler understand that raging diarrhea is not his fault. And cleaning tile, washing clothes, and hosing off one nasty little boy.
5. Then I sat on my couch for about 24 hours in the dark, in the mess, letting Nick Jr. play on an endless loop, like I had PTSD.
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After I regained my wits, I may or may not have grabbed my husband by the collar, stuck my nose on his and informed him straight up that they can all come again. Separately. But never, ever, ever and I mean this EVER ALL AT ONCE. Not ever. Ever. Do you understand?
Because the clarification is absolutely necessary with him.
After Adam’s neuro appointment this week where I damn near cried explaining his bad behavior, most notably his little fits of rage that end in “poop! penis!! peniiiss! poopy head!” she agreed to lower his morning medicine to the more manageable dose he was on before. Praise God.
I took Adam to mass today where we lasted exactly 3 minutes. My embarrassing time at worship ended when my son stood on the seat while we sat, grabbed his crotch and nearly shouted, ” I have to peeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I have to go peeeeeeee!”
“Did you give him medicine this morning?” I wearily asked my husband. “And if so, how much.”
“2.5 milliliters,” He replied.
“2. He gets 2 in the morning, as I explained repeatedly. TWO TWO TWO. Not 2.5″
Unfortunately 2.5 is the last thing I said. I’ll bet that is what stuck.
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Everyone assures me that 3 year olds are harder than 2 year olds ever were and if I can just hang on 4 will be easier. With this boy, I feel like I am flinging myself against a brick wall over and over again. He is the most oppositional child I have ever dealt with and at the end of the day, I’m pretty well spent.
Right now, 4 is looming large on the horizon like white unicorns jumping over iridescent rainbows. I hope, that like unicorns, this is not one big lie.
And if it is, I’m going to buy this, frame it and hang it over my mantle.
I would title this “When Unicorns are Allergic to Rainbows.” Unbelievably for sale at : http://www.etsy.com/listing/29453226/4×4-print-where-rainbows-come-from
Oh honey. The math on this post is all bad: too many guests, too many days, too few rooms, too much egg, too much medicine, too much barf. All adds up to a woman who has way too much tired in her bones. I remember more or less sailing through the so-called “terrible twos” with both boys, very smugly, thinking that MY children were obviously the superior kind of children. And then like a damn switch had been thrown, each woke up on his 3rd birthday having been replaced by Linda Blair in her pea-soup vomiting days. Hellions. Hellcats. Demonspawn. Ornery mofos, is what.
This to shall pass. Really, it will. And then yes, it will be happy unicorn barf until they hit 15.