Sick, again.

As if this past week hasn't been nasty enough, as if this weekend wasn't hard enough given my grandmother's funeral, I'm now sick with the flu. The kind of flu where you shouldn't get out of bed for three or four days. Unless, of course, you have a child. Then you're forced to be up during the day--and if you're super lucky--from 1:30 a.m. on, too.

Sanctuary!

Another blown-out diaper and projectile vomiting. I'm seriously wondering if I have what it takes to be a stay-at-home mom. Because right now, I'd prefer to be almost anyplace but here.

A sincere thank you

There are days, much like today, when a kind comment can mean the world. Whether it's an encouraging note on a blog, an e-mail just to say hello, or a kind smile for a stranger at the grocery store--these social interactions matter. So thank you. You know who you are. Your supportive comments have such uplifting capabilities. I carry them with me like little nuggets that I can nurture myself when things get hard. Like yesterday, for instance. Or today.

My mom's mom started a steep decline yesterday. My parents, still in Santa Fe, had an evening flight home. I sat by my grandmother's bedside pleading she hold on so my mom could say goodbye. Thank God my parents caught on earlier flight enabling my mom to arrive by midday. I don't think I could have sat bedside, on death watch, by myself. So I put in several hours yesterday and then gratefully, selfishly, handed over the reigns to my mom and one of her sisters.

Then I had to hold it together for The Banker's grandmother's 85th birthday brunch. On our way home, Becca got quite ill. The kind of ill where her diaper was blown, her clothes, jacket, and car seat soaked. Despite the freezing cold, we alternated cracking the windows on the drive back home. It took an immense amount of control not to vomit. Then more heart-wrenching time at the nursing home. Then on to a gala dinner and dance--a bank function The Banker had to attend.

This morning, as I was on my way to bring my mom and her sister coffee, my grandmother finally passed, marking the end to an over-5 year battle with Alzheimer's.

But there's no rest for the weary. Or those with children. Those with a weak stomach, stop reading now. I'm very serious about this. Now.

Becca's virus continued into the night and this morning, just hours after I returned from my final visit to the nursing home, it hit an all-time first. I've seen projectile vomiting, but this was so, so much worse. The Banker was changing her diaper, already leaking from another round, and he called for my help. As he was switching out a clean diaper, Becca projectile diarrhead across the room, into the hallway, and across my body. She shot some 7 feet. It was like a water cannon went off. A water cannon full of liquid poop. The Banker and I looked at each other, our jaws on the floor. (In poop.) Then, because there was nothing else to do, we laughed. Hysterically. As we cleaned the bedspread, the floor, my clothes, and Becca, we laughed. Because the tears had already been spent and all that was left was the maniacal laughter of a mad person.

Now I'm off to rekindle a much-hated talent from my journalistic past: writing an obituary for a woman who was beautiful and adventurous. Who raised a family in Venezuela. Who loved to dance and party. Who lacked maternal instincts. And who always spoke her mind.

All quiet on the blogging front

I'e been meaning to jot down a note or two here, but I've been caught up on this whirlwind that is life and I can't seem to find the time. Or energy. Or motivation. First I was sick with the bug that's been going around, which left me feeling like I'd been jumped in a dark alley or hit by a bus...or both. But as my mom not-so-sympathetically declared, "There are no sick days for moms." And boy was she right. I slept when Becca slept, went to bed as soon as I felt things were under control in the evenings, but other than that, I just had to rough it out.

Then The Banker fell ill over the weekend (if you want to see what THAT was like, see "Man Cold" on YouTube. SO ACCURATE.), so I had less than the usual amount of help around the house. (While he didn't take any "sick days" from work, The Banker did get loads of naps during the weekend. Apparently, sometimes dads do get to take sick days...sort of.)

This week has already started to get away from me--freelance dangerously piling up, book club book to be read, and yes, still hoping to get Becca's memory book started before her first birthday, which is just around the corner. And why did the dogs decide NOW was the best time to start molting and leaving clumps of fur all over my formerly clean home? Let's not even mention my gym membership that expires in a week. I'm not sure I even remember the route to take to that mystical place called "the gym."

And last night Becca screamed from 3 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. This morning, she's got the worst runny nose and keeps sneezing. So it's off to the pediatrician's, but not before I stop by the Alzheimer's unit to try and feed my grandmother some lunch because my parents are out of town. And then tonight? The Banker has a work event I must attend looking properly groomed and smiling...on three hour's sleep.

Okay...back to eating bon-bons and sitting on the couch.

Rule of Nature #74

When you finally, after two rainchecks, take your kid into that really big company where you once worked--you know the one that people from all over the country spend years and countless portfolios and tests to get into?--to have lunch with your former managing editor, your usually sweet cherub will act like that kid, the kind who force people to give you glances urging you to remember to use birth control going forward.

Putting the FAT in Fat Tuesday

I love Fat Tuesday. I mean, on no other day does the world say, "Go ahead, eat and drink and be merry like it's the last day you'll get to let loose...at least for the next 40 days." (Except if you count Thanksgiving, which has less debauchery involved. Or Easter, which is mostly chocolate and egg based.)

Tonight I've opted for extra crispy fried chicken and red bean and rice from a fast-food joint. I don't ever eat fast food and never eat fried chicken, so this will be quite the treat. A big, greasy, gut-busting treat. And after that? Well tomorrow Lent begins and with it a hardcore push to lose the final lingering pounds of baby weight. To boot, The Banker and I are cutting out alcohol Mondays through Thursdays. This will be quite the feat, because in this house wine is kinda like toilet paper--if we run out, people get panicky.

Not-so-friendly skies

This is a portion of the letter I wrote to Frontier Airlines after our total crap flights to CanCun. I never, ever bother writing companies, but the people who work for Frontier so totally screwed us that I got angry enough to write:

My husband and I arrived early for a 7:15 a.m. flight to CanCun on Saturday, January 19th. It was our first flight with our 10-month-old and we wanted ample time to get settled. But we were forced to stand at the ticket counter for almost 50 minutes because no one knew how to charge us $12 for an infant tax. Three different employees over 45 minutes couldn’t figure out how to take pocket change from us and check our baggage. By the time they phoned someone with the training required to complete this task, there were only minutes to spare before our flight. We rushed through security and were among the last to board the flight—no ability to pre-board and settle for our first flight with a baby. It was a terrible and stressful way to start our vacation.

But Frontier didn’t disappoint on the return flight, either. Departing at 3:25 on Saturday, January 26th, we arrived with plenty of time to compensate for any ticketing problems. We were first in line for pre-boarding, but right as we were to step onto the plane we were told we would have to stand and wait—the flight attendants had yet to arrive. The entirety of the plane’s passengers stood for 15 minutes, waiting outside the plane’s door. It was insinuated to my husband by one of the ground crew that the flight attendants might have been caught up “shopping” in the duty-free stores. After the flight attendants’ eventual arrival, the plane sat on the tarmac for 40 minutes waiting to take off—providing no shortage of discomfort for the passengers. (One person in our party was almost forced to urinate herself due to the extended time without bathroom access.) After all this, the plane was an hour late arriving home.

The person in our party almost forced to pee herself? Yup, that would be ME. I'd gone to the bathroom right before boarding, but since we didn't depart for an hour after we were supposed to and because I'd drank a large bottle of water in attempts to rehydrate myself, well...it wasn't pretty. While we were waiting on the runway, the pilot announced it'd be another 16 minutes until we departed. I almost burst into tears--at this point I had a 20-pound baby on my lap (on my bladder) who would scream if anyone else held her. The Banker told me I'd better make a quick jump all of three rows to the restroom. The minute I stood up, though, two flight attendants (obviously grumpy because of the crap choices in the duty-free store) screamed like banshees at me. Total humiliation. If I'd had more guts, I would have peed myself to make a point.

And I didn't even mention how the return flight ran out of booze.

Proof the romance hasn't died

Last night as The Banker and I are brushing our teeth and getting ready for bed...

Me: What did we eat for dinner that was red?
The Banker: Nothing
Me: You mean this was stuck in my teeth since lunch?! Geez, I should brush more...
The Banker: Tell me about it!