I'd love to say that it was the month-long bronchiopnuemoniysnotty funk, kicked off by yours truly, followed by a wicked cold from each of the kids.
Or the double ear infection and sinus infection that R had when I finally took him to the doctor. Three weeks later. #notwinning
Or the car sickness every 45 minutes both up and down the road for Thanksgiving.
Or those diapers that Uncle Joel avoided with abandon.
Or the stomach virus that has summarily knocked out Anna Helen (2 days), Robbie (4 days), and Shawn (going on day 6).
Or the fact that in the last three weeks Robbie has gone to school three full days.
I'm washing my hands. Lots.
We are so freaking weary. Sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Sick of 15-16 loads of laundry a week you know because vomit. And potty training. And worse.
Fearful of losing jobs or opportunities because of the amount of time we have had to call out sick or drag a sick kid to the office, knowing that your kidless colleagues are looking at you like a leper.
Frankly, waiting on the other shoe to drop.
2014 has been a bear.
Not one of those sweet cuddly teddy bears. One of those Koala bears. The kid that looks so cute and innocuous until it stabs your eyes out with eucalyptus.
And then, stuff gets real.
As you know, R has a fairly severe peanut allergy, but since he was a baby, he has had more-that-usual vomiting... in the car, when coughing, when crying. I mentioned it in passing at our last allergist appointment and it set off a frenzy of appointments over the last few weeks, all at Children's Hospital. (Note to self: never ever bitch about allergies and vomiting except to your friends on the internet after spending a significant amount of time at Children's).
Do we have malabsorption? A hole in the esophaugus? And intestinal digestive issue?
R has been poked and prodded, blood tested.
I wanted to kick the doctor in the face when he said "it's very unlikely, but if all the other tests come back negative, it could be a tumor in the brain".
I know there isn't a tumor in the brain. I mean, there's no freaking tumor in the brain.
It's just vomit, ya'll.
But how can you NOT send your kid for the upper GI. The one where you scheduled it for 8am because you knew the 8 hours of fasting including milk was going to result in a tantrum-laden morning (it did).
The one where you have to convince him the barium is a milk shake (ps, it isn't).
That the hospital gown is an artists cape (not).
And the x-ray tech is dressed like a knight of the round table (she wasn't)
The one where PTL you were smart for once and packed the kindle so he could watch Thomas from the tunnel (he did).
The one where you have to convince him the x-ray machine is a very cool tunnel (it wasn't).
The one where you have to stand in the hallway when the amazing nurses tend to your three year old (not a baby but still a baby), and listen to him wail for Mama for what felt like 30 minutes (it was 7.)
Let me just say, it sucked.
He was brave. Me? Not so much.
And of course, nothing was found that was wrong.
So I'm going to take our vomit and go home.
I don't want to do this again.
Universe, you owe us a break. Seriously.