Ghost of Christmas future

Well, now I don't know if my bad sentiments toward Christmas this year were a response to my internal strife, or an omen of things to come. Now that the holiday has come and gone, I'm going with omen.

On the bright side, Christmas Eve was wonderfully snowy and perfect for a Christmas Eve, and I read Z the polar express at bed time and it was very exciting. The next day was fresh and white, and just like in the movies. Z and Mr. F didn't even fight over their toys as much as they have in previous years, and I felt like we'd made an improvement in the gluttony department (we bought each child one $50-ish present and two smaller presents - Z got a bed tent, a lalaloopsy doll and a die cast Sally car, Mr. F got a train set, a die cast Ramone car and a little set of plastic construction vehicles - although part of me wonders a little if that was overkill?).

On the dark side, Jimmy woke up (he went to bed at 5 a.m., the kids were up at 8 a.m.), opened presents, and then got sick and crashed for the rest of the day. He missed Christmas dinner while he recouped, and we took it easy around here and just hung out for the next couple of days. Which was kind of nice. Thursday we saw the Zoo lights (which was awesome) and I worked super late, Friday I tried to see Les Mis with a friend but it was all sold out (at two theaters) and Saturday and Sunday I think we just stayed home, because I can't remember.

New Year's Eve, started off with a bang. We had our ultrasound in the morning, and found out we're having a boy! Which is great. But I was shocked and had mixed emotions. I was convinced I was having a girl, and I felt a little sad knowing it wouldn't be Juniper. On the other hand, I'm excited to have another little fellow running around here, he looked healthy in the ultrasound, and Z and I will have plenty of quality one-on-one mother daughter time together. Later that day, we went to see Leslie, Matt, Jaynie, George and Harriet, whom my children ADORE, and had a blast eating Chinese, playing games and letting the kids play freely. They had so much fun, but at some point, Mr. F said something like, "Go home." And we followed his directions. The kids were in bed late, about 9:30 or so, and Jimmy and I were just settling down to watch a movie and ring in the new year when Mr. F woke up crying at about 11 p.m. Covered in vomit. We put him in the bath, thinking he'd had too much sugar or maybe some peanuts (he's allergic) and that it would pass quickly, but by 3 a.m., when he was still puking about every 15 minutes, we knew better (in between episodes, we looked up from opposite sides of the bed to see that it was 12:08 a.m., and Jimmy said something like, "Happy New Year." I will never forget the sad, scared look on Mr. F's face when he knew he was about to throw up again, or how his whole body shook as he wretched and wretched, even though after the food, and the water, and the bile, and the stomach acid, there was nothing left to come out of his tummy. He fell asleep in between episodes, but Jimmy and I kept a vigil on either side of him. I watched the clock, counting the minutes, and like clockwork, it would come. First, it was every 5 minutes, for about 2 hours. Then every 10 minutes for 2 hours. Then every 20 minutes for 2 hours, then every 35 minutes for 2 hours, then every hour, until 9 a.m., when he finally went to sleep. We caught his vomit in towels, and wiped it off his face. The acid burned his skin until his cheeks were chapped and red and his voice was hoarse. I tried to sleep after he fell asleep, but I kept waking up, dreaming I'd seen that look in his eyes and knowing that he was about to throw up again. It was traumatic. For him, and for us watching him. He's been slowly on the mend, and today seems like he's more of himself again.

So we had a full night's sleep on Tuesday night.
But last night, at about 4 a.m. (and we'd gone to bed around midnight, I couldn't fall asleep until 1 a.m.), I heard our doorknob rattle a little bit, (superhuman mother's hearing even when asleep) and I opened it to see little Z covered in puke. We put her in the tub with bubbles, just like we did with Mr. F, and she played happily for awhile, thinking that was all of it. But we knew. And it was horrible to know what was coming and watch her play, knowing she didn't know. I didn't know if I should warn her, or not, but then, as she asked to get out of the tub, the second wave hit. Z's episodes haven't been as bad, because she can understand what we say to her and communicate back, and she can throw up in the puke bucket instead of all over the bed, but, in some ways, it's just as bad. She's said to me, "Mommy, I just want to feel like I used to again. I want to eat and drink like I used to." And she's asked me over and over in a very weak, fragile voice with half opened eyes and ghostly white skin, "When am I going to feel better?" At one point, after I took her temperature, she asked me, "Am I going to die?" At least, finally, she's napping now. And Mr. F. And while they sleep, I notice the tension and fear and anxiety that my body holds when they're awake — worrying how they feel, when and if they'll throw up again, wondering when they'll feel better, not knowing how to make it happen.

Through it all, I've thought of the mothers with infants in the NICU, or parents with kids at the children's hospital. Kids on chemo, kids needing transplants, kids that face dying as a real possibility every day, even though they might not understand it, and my heart aches. I feel for those kids, and for those parents, as I always have, and I fear the time if I should ever have to endure something similar. It's a horrible feeling, wanting to run away from your kids because you can't take seeing their pain for one more second, yet wanting to stay close to them and hug them and stroke their heads and hold their writhing bodies because you hope you can comfort them in some small way. Jimmy and I both felt that way, afraid to leave them alone, wanting to leave. And although I don't want this to happen anymore, or again (and I am terrified that he and I are next), I must say how much I have appreciated Jimmy in these last few days. It has been a bonding experience of horror, but so comforting to look up at each other and know each other's feelings, or reach out and touch his arm for stability, or watch him hold up our children so they can rest while they purge and know I'm not alone, know that he's helping them. He's a good, good man. And I am grateful for him.

The final thing, insult to injury. Our dryer is dying. It works half of the time. So, loads of soiled towels and clothes and sheets and blankets are stacking up in the laundry room. Doesn't it seem to be that dryers always die at the most inopportune times?

And so with that, I bid this holiday season farewell. It has been an experience. Memorable. With room for improvement. Here's hoping that next year, with our family of FIVE, our two little boys and one little girl, things might be a little better. And can you believe it? I'm looking forward to it.