Last week at Charlie's well check there was this croupy, snotty kid in the waiting room with us. In the "Well Child" waiting room. The one clearly marked with a happy face and a sign indicating children with ANY SYMPTOMS AT ALL in all caps belong twelve virus-killing feet away, across the hall in the sick child waiting room, the one with the sad face and the thermometer my kids think is a medicine dropper because they have never seen a mercury thermometer.
I glanced over (discretely, of course) at his mother every time he let out one of his lung-rattling cough-barks, but she seemed totally oblivious of the fact that she had brought a dirty bomb into the Lysol scented sanctuary known as the Well Child waiting room. My whole plan was foiled. First appointment of the day? Check. Two healthy kids to ensure admittance into the Well Child waiting room? Check. FOLLOWING OF THE RULES BY OTHER PEOPLE? NO CHECK.
Not surprisingly, Wes started honking sometime in the night between Saturday and Sunday. He also woke up about ninety seven times and required one of us to be in the room to even consider dropping off to sleep again. Magical.
He seemed A-OK when he got up on Sunday so we went about our usual routine, but then Charlie started sounding stuffy about midway through the day. And then *I* woke up Monday morning around 3:00 with a sore throat and stuffed up nose. Oh, no no no no no no. Monday Wes was full-on miserable, I sneezed so many times in a row I was afraid I would have to pull the car over for safety, and Charlie was definitely sick.
We did the most natural thing when faced with the rhinovirus trifecta, we drove forty-five minutes into downtown because we needed The Good Cinnamon Rolls. And I needed a giant, cold glass of iced tea with tons of ice to scrape the layer of yuck off the inside of my throat. We really had a lovely time.
Then we came home and watched TV for fourteen hours straight. I may never stop hearing the Caillou theme music in my head, but at least everyone was relatively content.
Last night was when things really took a turn for the disgusting. It all came to a head this morning when I picked a sobbing, miserable Charlie up at 5:30 and he spit up phlegm all over my shoulder. You are welcome for that. Several hours of TV, donuts, and unlimited bananas later Charlie had a fever and winced in pain when I gently wiped yogurt off his cheekbones and nose. So, since we didn't have preschool to worry about, we headed back to the doctor's office to rule out a sinus infection.
He doesn't have one. Yet. Then I got in trouble for giving him the six-month old prescription decongestant we had from the last cold. I did not tell Pediatrician Man that he's lucky I'm not selling that stuff on the street because do you even KNOW what kind of reactions I get when I tell people Charlie and Wes have their very own, under five approved, decongestant?
The BEST PART was when Pediatrician Man told me that, given the fact that Wes has not yet had a fever and has some symptoms that Charlie doesn't have (A diaper so disgusting I had to open all the windows after changing him this morning, for example), that they *might* have DIFFERENT VIRUSES and if I'm not careful, they could recover from their original virus, then SWITCH and be sick for another week to ten days. OH BOY.
I let Charlie pick out dinner because they were both so pitiful. He chose ham, mac and cheese, and cinnamon rolls. So that's what we're having. And I will continue my regimen of compulsive handwashing until everyone is in the clear. Which will probably be in April sometime.