It's been a very trying week in the Richardson household, and I'll forever refer to it as my first full-blown crisis situation as a Mom of Multiples. Although it's not quite over, I'm feeling pretty certain at this juncture that all five of us will come out of it relatively unscathed, save for a few raw noses and what is sure to be a lifelong fear of saline for the children.
Samantha got it first, but we're all trying to be diplomats here and not hold it against her for infecting the rest of us. We've been looking to blame someone outside of our immediate circle, but the fact is - we don't get out much. This particular virus must have just slithered it's way into our home like a thief in the night, attempting to put us all down in one fell swoop. That's my second best guess - the first being the slim possibility that the girls picked it up while sneaking out at night to steal hubcaps. If you have a better explanation for how their socks get so black and dirty while they're (supposedly) sleeping in their crib at night, feel free to enlighten me.
We'd previously had some experience dealing with sick kids while staving off our own illness circa Thanksgiving, 2012. Adler was at the tender young age of a little over 11-months old, and the girls had been home less than a month from their 17-day NICU stay. All five of us came down with head colds over the holiday, and the worst part of it was that the meal we so painstakingly shopped for, prepared, and was determined to get on the table on time lost some of it's flavor due to our taste buds being all outta whack. I recall it only lasting a couple of days, and maybe it was the festivities of the holidays or the fact that we were still in sleep deprivation mode from the newborn phase with the twins, but I just don't remember it being as grisly and horrible as the current epidemic we're battling.
You can always tell when your kid is feeling under the weather, even if they're too small to vocalize it. Their eyes go lackluster, their usual sunshine-y personalities don't shine through, and they fail to laugh or even crack a smile at your silly faces, gestures, and falsetto singing. Samantha's plight started when all of the above symptoms surfaced, and soon after her little eyes got really red and puffy. Next thing you know, she's sneezing like crazy and her nose started leaking an incredible amount of fluid. Honestly, it's unfathomable how much liquid could accumulate in that chubby little head of hers. It was like a damned sieve had been turned on! I first attributed her general crabbiness to the fact that she's cutting her top teeth, but Google said that most teething symptoms are actually not teething symptoms, and since everything you read on the internet pertaining to babies must be tried and true ... Seriously, we knew something was up besides Bugs getting her incisors, despite the fact that those suckers are going to be HUGE!
It was just logical that Sophia would be the next to get it. I started segregating them as soon as Samantha exhibited symptoms, but those two surpass the twin cliché of two peas in a pod. They sleep together, eat together, constantly touch one another, and have been recently spotted taking turns doing soggy, spit-enhanced "motorboats" to one another for fun in their play yard. But alas, this virus had a different direction in mind for it's #2 culprit, because I woke up on Tuesday morning feeling as though I'd been eaten by a billy goat and then shat off the side of a cliff, for lack of a better descriptive. My throat felt like I'd swallowed glass shards, I had Faucet Face just like poor little Sammi, and my head felt as though I had a vise-grip on each temple. This was the beginning of a sweeping, infectious, household pandemic. Eeeek!
Sure enough, Adler got it next. You know how men are big crybabies when they're sick? My little man completely refused to wear that particular insignia of shame. He was stoic at first, determined to not let his leaky nostrils disrupt his day of extreme play, and carried on with his usual shenanigans while he smirked at the virus living within him. Sophia got it next, and let me remind you - we are only going on Wednesday here, a mere two days since the virus reared it's ugly head. This was a fast-moving, highly contagious bug that we were dealing with. However, it really didn't get balls-to-the-wall ugly in here until Sophia got infected.
Sophia is very unlike her sister in some respects. They may look alike, but their personalities couldn't be more different. We lovingly and jokingly refer to Samantha as the Jeff Spicolli of babies (reference: Fast Times at Ridgemont High, 1982), as she is extremely laid-back, has an unwavering sense of humor, and sometimes laughs inappropriately, kind of like a pothead would. Nothing rattles her. Sophia, on the other hand ... whole other story. Drama queen, to the hilt. Fussybutt to the nth degree. Has an aura of royalty about her, and seems to assume that her demanding personality beseeches the rest of us to wait on her, hand and foot. She was going to make damn sure that the entire neighborhood felt her pain.
That made four of us to fall victim to the sickness. It was a thousand wonders Poppa (my father/kid's grandfather's moniker) didn't catch it, because he's here every day with us and is constantly in the kid's faces getting kisses, hugs, motorboats, ear munches, nose-grabbing, the whole nine yards. Since he's kind of getting to be long in the tooth and suffers a long list of ailments already, I advised him at this point to get out while the getting was good. He reluctantly acquiesced, but it was only after the fight, and he snuck back over here once wearing a painter's mask to prove that he was being cautious. Retired old people are reckless like that.
Armed with bulb syringes, saline, menthol baby rub, a cool-mist humidifier and warm washcloths, I was determined to ease mine and the kid's symptoms. Unfortunately, I was a shade late. The kids were miserable, Mom was miserable, and the NICEST weather Arkansas has to offer in August (75°!!) was happening outside, while we were all confined to our sickbeds. You can only imagine how bad it sucked to be Dad. He hadn't yet caught it, but living with the four of us must have made his otherwise stressful day at the office seem like a cakewalk.
I try not to be one of those parents who rush my kids to their pediatrician's office at the first sign of the sniffles, though I see to it that they're present to every scheduled wellness checkup. Outside of giving birth or having mandatory surgeries to remove certain organs that are problematic, I don't go to the doctor as a general rule. It's always been my humble opinion that doctors sometimes inadvertently make you sicker, antibiotics are over-prescribed, and even OTC medicine should be taken or administered on an emergency, as-needed basis ... if ever. But I'm here to bear witness that after putting thermometers up so many butts, and wiping so many noses, and holding crying babies who can't fall asleep on their own due to the amount of snot in their heads - I damn near buckled and begged for an antidote of some sort, knowing full well there is no cure for the common cold. At one point I just fantasized about Dr. BabyFeelGood making a house call and magically making everyone better while I curled up under the covers with a prescribed sleep aid. Don't judge, because we all have our weak moments.
Night three was what spawned the acronym in this post title. No one could sleep. Stuffiness and congestion prevailed. The best we could do was lay there and rest until it was time to soothe and comfort whoever woke up next. At some point, I'm pretty sure we were all crying out loud in unison. I don't think it would have been so unbearable if it wasn't the entire household feeling bad, save for Dad. He seemingly got off scot-free. But you know what we did? We suffered right alongside one another, and we've just about got this thing beat. Today was a little better than the days before as far as the kids are concerned. I observed them getting back into their regular routines of full-blown silliness and fun. They seemed to enjoy their food more. I still have to doctor up their little noses, and they've grown exceedingly wary of that blue bulb coming towards their faces. To say that they hate having snot suctioned out of their irrigated nostrils would be the understatement of the year. Thanks to Sean, their brotha-from-anotha-motha, for bringing over the saline and new snot syringes. Big perk of having a licensed respiratory therapist in the immediate family! Must bake him something soon, as I've heard through the grapevine (re: the daughter-in-law I text daily) that he was feeling sick, too. Sure hope he didn't catch it from us!
As for myself, I feel like I'm getting closer to being on the mend. I'm a closet (more like back-behind-the-garage) smoker, so most of my colds have long legs on them. I know, I know - we reap what we sow, and all that jazz. I'm working on quitting. Someday soon. Really! Unfortunately, dear old Dad started feeling the first signs of it this afternoon after laboring so hard for us all. It was inevitable, I tell myself. Do not milk this into roping him into going grocery shopping again, I tell myself. Hopefully the strain has died down some and lost it's voracity, so maybe Dad's version of the sickness will be milder than what we had. Not sure it works that way, being as how I pulled that right out of my arse in the spirit of being positive and hopeful, but I am definitely hoping that he doesn't feel as miserable as we all did.
It can be said that families either break apart or pull together in times of crisis. I'd like to boast that our little quintet managed to pull together and made the best of a bad situation, save for a few arguments on how-to's, why-for's and the such. But in our defense, we're very passionate people. We love hard, we fight hard. We are going to kick this virus in it's ass and both our antibodies AND our characters will be all be stronger as a result of it!
In Your Face, you no-good, rotten virus. Come back see us again .... NEVERRR!
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