And I don't mean San Diego County; I mean right here in our front yard!
We have a house full of sick people and, after being cooped up for a whole week, we were going stir crazy. So, we did what any considerate sick people would do, we avoided the masses and went for a drive, getting out, but not infecting anyone else. However, we knew we needed a destination, so we headed for the high country and, rumor had it, snow. Driving East out the 8, it wasn't long before we had climbed to 4,000 feet and found it coming down hard. So we exited and hopped out of the car for a little romp in the fluffy white powder. (Okay, if we're being honest here - and we like to be honest here - it wasn't fluffy or powder, but it was white and CO-OLD to boot! :D) See how well-prepared we San Diegans are for snow?
BUT!
But, but, but, but!!!
Here's the real shocker! When I got home from running a few errands tonight, this is what I found right outside our front door! At (and I am quoting The Chief here) "pretty dang close" to sea level!! You can't see it so well on the grass or the garbage can lids, but check out our neighbor's car parked in front of our house! Yes folks, it snowed in San Diego.
I am officially declaring 2011 The Year of the Sick for our family.
Right now it's Pip's turn. And in typical Bagel overachiever fashion, he is outdoing the rest of us. He has RSV, which stands for Respiratory Syncytial Virus. Anybody have ANY idea how to say that middle word? I'd really, really like to know. Never mind. I just found out from a doctor friend on Facebook. Have I mentioned before how useful Facebook is? Syncytial is pronounced "sin sishal." Yeah, I was WAY off in my head. I was thinking it was "sink i (as in igloo) teal." Good thing I'm not a doctor. I would slaughter the medical lingo. Thanks Johnny!
Anyway, back to Pip. He's stuffed up and draining like a leaky faucet at the same time. He purrs through his mucous. He has a rattling cough and you can tell it hurts him pretty badly because he tries especially hard not to cough and cries after every mean ol' burst that escapes his best efforts. He has red, leaky eyes and is so, so fussy.
I hear all the time, from other mothers, about how much they enjoy the cuddly nature of their children when they are sick. (Come to think of it, I think I've said this before myself!) This is not the case with Pip. He is simultaneously clingy and anti-cuddle. If you have never experienced this before, count yourself blessed. This means that he wants me to hold him, but whenever I do, he proceeds to shove off of me, climb over my arms, and dig his toes into my quads (if I'm sitting) and belly (if I'm standing) leaving little bruises all over me. It's rather exasperating (and, to be honest, a bit painful).
He still sleeps through the night, thankfully, but that's the ONLY time he sleeps. His napping is sporadic and insignificant.
So, if you put all this together, you have a wide-awake, fussy, clingy, and unsettled baby. Try getting ANYTHING done with one such as he. I dare you. The boys have been watching the boob tube (and wearing their pajamas) non-stop for three days now. Luckily, we have educational programming that they enjoy, like Leap Frog Letter Factory DVDs, Liberty's Kids, and Munchkin Math. And if I feel like we've maxed out our time on those, we switch to PBS and catch some Curious George, Sesame Street, Word World, and Super Why.
The other day I got so fed up with the sickness-induced monotony that I climbed on the treadmill with the Pipster strapped to my chest in the Baby Bjorn. It would have worked beautifully if it hadn't been for the 23lb. extension on my chest that was insisting on throwing the full weight of those 23lbs. forward in order to watch the fascinating performance of disappearing and reappearing feet below. After 15 minutes of that, my back was done. Done, not finished, because at the end of those 15 minutes it was cooked like a Turkey and equally dead.
Here are some pictures of Explorer Pip in happier days:
And here he is in his latest state, taking charge of the nebulizer:
Tonight Pip had his first Jamba Juice and Chipotle. He learned how to suck out of a straw while sampling my Cold Buster (I don't have a cold; I just love the flavor of the Cold Buster. So fresh.). He also ate all the black beans out of my Chipotle veggie burrito. I have to give myself props for managing to eat anything with my baby boy climbing all over me for more.
I think our trips to Jamba Juice and Chipotle are going to become even more infrequent now that a fifth mouth has joined in on our little tradition.
These videos are especially for the far-away Pip fans. We love this little guy. He's been crawling for about a month now (and sitting up for about the same; those skills seemed to arrive simultaneously), cruising his way around the house, following his mama around doggedly, sampling anything he can get his mouth on (which means my house is cleaner than it has been in years). He is so inquisitive. He finally sleeps through the night (as of last week) after one long night of letting him cry it out. That was it, though. Just one night. And the next night he was sleeping without waking. It was bliss.
He weighs 23.5 lbs.
He wears 12-month clothing. Mostly to accommodate his girth. His squat, little legs are still in six-month pants. "Shorty" would be a good nickname for him if he didn't already have three hundred.
He has what I think will be hazel eyes, just like his older brother, Buddha.
He has blond hair, lots of chub, and rainbow smiley eyes (I hope these never change).
He doesn't like baby food . . . at all.
He loves Cheerios, deli sliced chicken and provolone cheese, peas, whole wheat bread chunks dunked in yogurt, and lots and lots of breast milk.
Pip is 7.5 months old.
He has a deep voice and the best, most hearty baby laugh ever.
He is a mama's boy with definite stranger anxiety.
He is mauled by his two doting brothers on a daily basis.
He loves baths and has one every night before he goes to bed. He is so cute sitting up all by himself in all that ocean of water. He has started to pull himself up on the side of the bath and pat the water-logged bathtub ledge. When he stands up, Mommy has to plop him back down and say "No, no, no, Pipilo."
He likes to go places in the car but hates our double stroller. He IS a fan of the Bugaboo, however, and plays the part of a king whenever we stroll him around in it.
He pulls himself up on furniture all the time and has numerous bumps and bruises on his head already to prove his adventurous nature.
When he falls, he's a big cry baby.
He enjoys walking around holding onto fingers.
He loves to grin at his Uncle Daniel, Aunt Sara, and Granny on Skype.
He has no teeth yet.
He likes to sing "lalalalalala", say "dadadadadada" and "bababababa", and pat everything.
The Chief knows when Pip is tired when he's holding him because Pip will start patting his arm and humming.
Pip still loves to pause and examine his hands every now and then. I love it. It's one of my favorite things to watch him do. It's so sweet.
His favorite toys are remote controls, cell phones, paper, balls, and shoes (ew).
(you know, the ones with everything centered, random words and phrases made larger and smaller and different colors, horrible punctuation, grammar, and lots of made-up words).
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I walked on the treadmill today as part of an ongoing effort to lose the baby weight (yes, I realize my "baby" is almost eight months old). While I walked, we listened to the Andrews Sisters on Pandora on my phone. Bugga was lying in the bed reading books, asking me questions I couldn't hear and showing me pictures I couldn't see. Buddha was on the floor next to the treadmill alternately hopping around and doing Singapore math problems in his workbook. The Pipster was asleep.
And then he woke up.
(This seems doubly worthy of gigantic font in my mind, like I'm screaming and running for cover because
- dun, dun, dun -
my child woke up.)
He woke up before sweaty Liz could shower.
So I nursed the baby while my older cats got in some exercise on the treadmill and I made a mental note of asking The Chief to turn the treadmill around so that if one of the boys decided to fling themselves off the end of it, they wouldn't destroy my new laundry sorting thingamajig.
I should have kept that thought mental.
(New font. Did you notice the new font there? I just wanted to make sure you did. So I made this aside in a different font, too. Did you notice this one?)
Instead, I voiced that thought out loud.
And Buddha lectured me: "Shouldn't you worry more about a person than a laundry thing?"
. . .
*crickets*
. . .
"No. Nope. Not in the case of Buddha v. Laundry Sorter. You would come out of it fine, surviving the ordeal with a few bumps, bruises, maybe some scrapes, but my laundry sorter would be ruined. And I don't want to spend money I don't have to buy a new one. So . . . no."
Loving parental moment?
Probably NOT.
But at least my laundry thing is safe . . . for now.
When Il Pipilodi finished munching and I shooed the cats off la cinta para correr, I deposited my chubbalub in his Exersaucer, charged the older boys with keeping the peace, and made a mad dash for the shower.
Where I was happily covered in hot water and soapy bubbles when all hell broke loose.
Literally.
(Not figuratively or virtually, but literally.)
Fire. Brimestone. The works.
Pipster took up weeping and wailing (and probably would have gnashed his teeth, too, if he had any) and I could hear Buddha and Bugga's screams fading in and out and around, suggesting they were cutting a heated swath of poundings, scratchings, and walings through our casita.
(Hmm, underlining is not so prettified.)
My first move was to glance toward the window.
Yep. Open.
Then I sighed and hung my head and tried to escape to my happy place where my life doesn't sound like an episode of Jerry Springer. This turned out to be as futile as trying to "go somewhere else" while giving birth.
The sibling cyclone descended on the master bathroom with wind speeds upwards of 500 mph.
Pressure was building up fast.
Wailings and walings were increasing in intensity and frequency.
Escalation was the name of the game.
So I put on my Gryffindor robe (hey, it was a red-ish sort of towel), took up my wand (shampoo bottles are incredibly versatile), and in my best Dumbledore impersonation ever, worthy of an Oscar (is that the movie one?), yelled at the top of my lungs,
"SIIIIIIIILENCE!!!"
The cyclone evaporated and the muffled calm that followed was truly awe-inspiring.
I emerged from the bathroom with a shimmery glow streaming from behind me onto my three obedient soldiers standing at attention for their commander in chief.
But not really.
'Cause that's not really how it happened.
Or, unfortunately, how it ended.
If there's one thing that Liz is good at, it's telling a better story than the one she lives. I'm a closet embellisher. Okay, not so closeted. The Chief has to stand by me to make corrections whenever I'm telling stories. Like my ectopic pregnancy retelling. Remember that one? He says I got it all wrong. But, hey Buster, I lived it! Apparently I lived it wrong, though.
Okay, so here's what really happened.
Pip fussed and cried and the boys got in a fight over a Lego guy . . . wait for it . . . while I showered.
That's it.
The end.
Isn't it such a better story when embellished?
I'm a fan.
I think I'll start a new blog entitled My Life, Embellished (click that) on which I shall tell countless stories about my Supreme Court Justice husband, my college-enrolled Kindergartner, my MLS-scouted middle-born, and my 30 (not 20) lb. baby boy.
And I'll save this blog for the boring, real moments of my life, like just now when I went to put my teething baby to bed and his mouth found its way to my baby-weighted arm and delighted in zerbering me.
(On my honor, this last paragraph is brought to you embellishment-free.)
(And just in case you missed the sarcasm, I actually, matter-of-factually, enjoy living the REAL *boring* moments and just writing the embellished ones. Scouts honor.)
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And now for the random, unrelated (but cute, cute, cute) pictures . . . .
