Sunday 6:30 p.m. Eliot falls asleep drinking a bottle, and I put him to bed.
7:00 p.m. I go to bed with a book, thinking I'd better rest all I can before the little man wakes up coughing. I've got a feeling it will be a long night.
9:45 p.m. I wake to Eliot coughing and screaming, and Eli trying to comfort him. He refuses to be calmed. We try EVERYTHING we can think of, but he just can't quit coughing. Finally I relent and let Eli give him cough syrup, although I'm sure he'll overdose and die. He doesn't.
10:30 p.m. - 1:30 a.m. We're STILL trying to get Eliot to go back to sleep. His coughing has slowed, but he is restless. He doesn't want to rock-a-bye. I've made twenty hundred trips pacing back and forth across the living room and dining room with him snuggled in my arms, his head on my shoulder, yet he won't, can't let go and sleep. Every time I sit down in the rocker, he sits up and cries. We repeat this path until my back aches and my arm feels like it's going to drop out of its socket.
Meanwhile, Eli is upstairs googling to find out whether the worn-out latex pacifiers we've been using could be hurting him. We're searching for any reason why his cough could be so horrible even though our home has been turned into an entire pharmacy of bottles of syrup and cylinders of liquids, all sporting labels with "Eliot Heicher" 1/2 tsp. three times daily, 1 tsp. twice daily, 1/2 tsp. every six hours, and so on and so forth. Results inconclusive on the googling.
Monday 1:30 a.m. Eliot falls asleep when confronted with the secret weapon, the one thing he cannot resist. Remember this? He's outgrown the box, but the laundry basket has taken its place, and now the only thing in the universe that will console the child is being pulled across the floor in the laundry basket. So here I am, in the wee hours of the morning, hauling a 20-pound baby around in my laundry basket. Ah, the sheer absurdity of it all.
1:35 a.m. I transfer Eliot back to his crib.
2:30 a.m. Eliot wakes up coughing and crying.
2:32 a.m. We're wearing a path in the carpet upstairs, Eliot riding, me pulling the laundry basket.
2:45 a.m. I deposit the sleeping Eliot into his car seat this time, thinking he'll sleep better sitting upright.
3:00 a.m. Eliot wakes up coughing and crying.
3:03 a.m. Eliot is riding in the laundry basket. I'm pulling. And pulling. And pulling him across the floor.
4:00 a.m. Rinse and repeat.
6:00 a.m. Eliot wakes up coughing and crying. We can assume he's up for the day, as this tends to be his normal wake-up time. He coughes. And coughes. And coughes more. Eli helps me give him his breathing treatment and morning doses of medicines and then is off to work, leaving me with a hacking, coughing, sputtering, crying boy.
6:35 a.m. Coughes rack Eliot's little body so hard that he throws up onto the rug, a nasty pile of foam and snot.
7:01 a.m. Eliot cries "momma, momma," and buries his little face in my lap. I want my momma too. I call the house and Libby answers. Just missed Mom. She's at work.
7:30 a.m. I call my mom at work, barely suppressing tears, and beg her to come and help me.
8:00 a.m. Eliot vomits snot again amidst another hard coughing fit. He cries. I cry.
10:10 a.m. Mom pulls up and we meet her at the door. I'm wearing a snot and vomit stained t-shirt and my pajama pants are on backwards. Eliot is wearing cough medicine smears on his pajamas and in his hair, dried snot on his face and a wet diaper.
10:45 a.m. Mom has a roast in the oven, Eliot bathed, and me ushered into the shower while she watches Eliot. She's started laundry, done dishes, and soothed the baby. All is well with the world. *sigh*
1 comment:
I'm thinking why put him in the crib, just let him sleep in the laundry basket. Z still falls asleep in our laundry basket sometimes because she likes to lay in it and watch tv. although she is starting to get quite scrunched, so I am starting to wonder how big do they make laundry baskets now? I bet Adriane would know, she surely does more laundry than anyone I have ever known.
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