The past 72 hours (72? Yeah, I think so...) have been hell on this beautiful earth.
But James has finally pooped in the toilet. He has also peed in the sink at Bass Pro Shops, in the regular toilet at a friends house, and in her daughter's potty-training toilet, which is clearly made for little girls. Never in my life did I think I would be holding my son's penis so that it pointed down while he peed into a pink princess toilet.
Yet, here we are, another major milestone beyond the peeing in public restrooms, peeing in other places, and peeing in general.
Although, of course, with our family, it could not be a normal, fun, exciting story. It had to be this story.
My bestie had a baby, and of course, I just had to go and wrap my arms around her and see that beautiful bundle. It's amazing how little they are, and it's so true how fast kids really do grow up. So off we went, a 45 minute car ride to my friends house in the country. Upon arrival, we peed in the regular toilet, facing backwards because that was James' first adventure in peeing in a big toilet - minus the times the he tried prior to potty-training, of course.
Throughout our stay, we visited the toilet several times. Between his peeing, Catherine's fussing and Courtney having to not only breastfeed, but also pump, I am not sure we had a real conversation. I remember we started several, but I don't think we ever really finished them in that obligatory way that makes you bring up another subject to begin discussing.
We finally got in the car and started for home, and James was silent. In fact, when I looked back at him several times, he also looked very tired. Yep, you guessed it, he was not feeling well.
We got home and he wanted to go straight to bed, which is unusual. I still didn't think anything of it and put him to bed without lunch because he did not want to eat the pancakes he was requesting earlier. Since Catherine had slept on the 45 minute ride there and about 20 minutes of the 45 minute ride home, she was at and at 'em when we arrived back home. I hate it when my kids' schedules get off and then they sleep at different times, but so be it. I got to hold a precious, tiny baby, and for that, it was a worth it.
Catherine finally went to sleep just as James was waking up with a pale face, red eyes, and blotchy skin. I knew as soon as I touched him that he had a fever. I just didn't know how high. I struggled to find the thermometer, only to forget that he was wearing underwear, and he had an accident. So I finally changed him, all the while feeling the heat radiating off his skin. I took his temperature and reeled: 104! Astonishing for such a little guy, and concerning for this mama.
As I administered his tylenol, I was calculating just how I would get him to the hospital with Catherine in tow. A very constipated Catherine who requires to be breastfed. With a very, at that moment, needy James. Oh, and did I mention, Eric was working? I didn't? Well, he was. Awesome.
Luckily, the tylenol kicked in, just as Catherine was waking up. Awesome. So I tried to figure out how to keep two kids entertained while keeping them away from each other so that Catherine didn't catch what James very obviously had. He kept asking for water, refused to eat anything, and mostly laid around and watched Disney movies (which is great because I'm actually looking to do a Disney movie fundraiser... so I was able to do some research on songs!).
And so it went, Saturday night into Sunday. James woke up Sunday without a fever, but still no appetite and didn't want to drink. Still hadn't pooped in his night-time diaper, or in the toilet, so that was concerning as well.
Sunday was worse. Catherine slept a total of 1 hour in the morning, and from then on, scream/cried the entire day. From 1:30 until 10:30 p.m. (at 9:00 p.m. I handed her over to Eric), she simply screamed. And all James wanted to do was play. But not eat. Or drink. But at least he wanted to play, so things were looking up, right?
Wrong. James woke up this morning at 4:00 a.m. demanding to be let out of his crib to poop. I must have taken too long, because once I got into his room, he was letting out his last grunt. Yep, there it was. Poop.
So I changed him, put him back in bed, and I tried to go back to sleep as well. Only to hear him not even a half hour later demanding to be let out again because he had to pee. In the wee hours of this morning, I understood why people use pull-ups. Because a diaper is harder than hell to try and get back on in the middle of the night.
A half hour later, he had to poop. I went in, set him on the toilet, where he tried to no avail. Put him back in bed. About 5:30 is when he started coughing. And then he started crying. The only time I've heard him cough, followed by a wailing, is when his tummy hurts and he is about to throw up. Awesome.
Somehow, he didn't throw up, and I was able to soothe him back to bed. After peeing, of course, in the toilet. When I tried to drag myself back to bed, he began crying again. So I actually brought him into our bed with me, which I have only done a few times in his little life, And at that moment, Catherine began to fuss. So I brought her into bed, nursed her while laying on her side (thank you, God, for designing my body so that I can nurse laying down. Hallelujah). From there, James began to move about, coughing and not really sitting still. Another sign he's about to throw up. So we gathered towels and waited for the inevitable. But he never ended up throwing up.
I called into work, while continuing to nurse Catherine (how's that for multi-tasking?) and Eric got Catherine ready for daycare. James coughed and gagged, and even dry heaved a few times, but never threw up. However, he was lethargic, and obviously sick, so I got to stay home with him.
Fast-forward to bringing Catherine home from daycare. After lounging all day with James, our daycare provider text me about 4:00 saying Catherine had a fever and she was going to administer some baby tylenol. FUCKING AWESOME. So Catherine got her baby tylenol, Eric went to get her, and brought her home just as James is telling me he has to pee.
He does this weird thing when he has to poop that is exactly like when he has to pee, only he also grabs at his back and his front. When he has to pee, beyond verbalizing it, he also grabs himself. Do you suppose all the grown men that grab themselves started that way? Anyway, I digress.
As I'm trying to nurse a feverish Catherine on the chair-and-a-half, James is sitting on the toilet. POOPING. Only I didn't really realize it until he stood up and a HUGE POOP was just hanging from his butt, down to his knees (remember, he hadn't pooped in a long time and even earlier that morning when he did, it was just a little bit). He always turns around to look at his pee, then takes the bowl out and carries it to the bathroom (our half bath is too small to fit anything else in there, so the toilet stays in the living room). As he turned around, I saw his poop, dangling there, threatening to fall off and onto my floor. I was petrified, horrified, terrified, and did the only thing I thought of at that moment.
With Catherine still latched on, I made a beeline for James and caught his poop in my free hand and flung it into the toilet. While I was trying to make sure all of it was going into the toilet, I knocked into James, which wouldn't have been a big deal, but his pants were still around his ankles and the toilet was behind him. So there went my son, into and over the back of the toilet. Thankfully, Catherine came unattached somewhere in all this, and I set her down, still feverish and not feeling good. I grabbed the wipes from the basket and wiped my hand. The whole time this is happening, James is crying because he hurt himself, still has poop wedged between his butt cheeks, and is cold because his pants are still down. At this moment, my son hates me and will most likely never poop in the toilet again.
I wiped and wiped and wiped and somehow, we got all the poop that had mashed itself to my sons butt off. I cleaned up the mess, and while doing so, forgot to hardcore celebrate the fact that he had just pooped in the toilet.
So I say the magic word: "Would you like a treat for pooping in the toilet like a big boy?"
"YES!" he says through teary eyes. We head to the kitchen, and with each step, I come to the realization that we have no treats.
I ate them all. All those Reese's Peanut Butter Cups: gone. All those Rolos: gone. All those suckers: gone.
We had started foregoing treats because he seemed to take to the toilet so easily. Oops. So in my fit of despair this past weekend, while going it alone with two cranky, sick and constipated children, I ate every single piece of candy.
Shit.
James had to make-do with carrot-sticks, which I called special suckers. I am sure he was like, "What the hell, mom? These are carrots." But whatever. I tried.
From there, Catherine went to bed shortly thereafter and James followed not long after that.
And somehow, I've lived to tell the tale. I hope the next 72 hours are a little less eventful.
