When I gave the BFF a replay of my Sunday night, her reaction was, “Well, that sounds like a special kind of hell.”
She couldn’t have been more right.
The stomach flu is never fun. Having the stomach flu when
you are nursing a one month old is, indeed, a special kind of hell. Having
children who are sick is never fun. Being the one who is sick and having to
take care of the children is, indeed, a special kind of hell. Crying is never
fun. Being so sick and dehydrated and delusional that you are actually crying
and begging your one month old to
stop nursing and go to sleep, and then getting irritated because she’s not listening is, indeed, a special kind of
hell.
In between throwing up, somewhere around midnight, I tried Googling “Breastfeeding while sick,” desperately
looking for a reason, any reason, to
stop nursing her and send her next door. Do you know what I found instead? 150
websites that all said something along the lines of, “The best thing you can do
for your baby while you are sick is to continue to breastfeed because…antibodies,
health benefits, milk supply, blah, blah, blah…”
Well, shit.
So, there I was. Nursing, puking, calming down the baby who
was now pissed at me because I had to puke, nursing again, puking again, and so
on. This went on for about 8 hours.
Special. Kind. Of. Hell.
Now, I can hear some of you asking, “Where was Jeremy?” and I
will tell you, he was asleep. He was sick, too. “Well, you should have woken
him up anyway! It’s not fair for you to do it all by yourself!” you may be thinking.
To which I will tell you, I did.
Around 1:30 in
the morning, I woke him up. He rocked her, changed her, made her a bottle of
pumped milk and cuddled her. In typical Elizabeth
fashion, she replied to all of that with, “Hey, thanks for all that Dad. That
was really great. You’re amazing and I love you…
“Now, WHERE THE EFF IS MY MOM!?!”
I could have let them figure it out for awhile, I guess. I
could have let him be frustrated, let her be frustrated, listened to them both
cry. I could have but, hearing your newborn cry and knowing the only thing that
is going to make her happy is your boob you, no matter how bad you feel,
and just letting her cry anyway? Well that…that is a different kind of hell all
together.
It was about 3:30 am
when she finally detached herself from my body and went to sleep. She made it
up to me by sleeping until 11:30. The puking stopped, the fever broke and by 5:00 on Monday evening, I was starting to feel
human. This morning I’m much better and it’s all just a distant memory, an anecdote,
a reason to tell the story about, ‘that
one time when Elizabeth was a baby and I got the stomach flu…’
On Sunday night, however, I was thinking it was never going
to end. I was thinking I might be stuck in that special kind of hell forever.
I guess that’s just part of this parenthood gig though, isn’t
it?
Logan will be
seven in September. I have almost seven years full of moments. Moments with
both boys that were warm and fuzzy and wonderful and that I hoped would last
forever. Moments that were a special kind of hell that I thought would never
end. The perfect ones don’t last forever. The hellish ones do stop, eventually.
And I’ve learned along the way that eventually they all sort of blend together.
I’m sure it won’t be long from now that I’ll be sick with
the flu again or I’ll have a migraine, or, you know, a hangover. Elizabeth
will need much more to make her happy than to be nursed for comfort, just like
her brothers do. I will actually have to get
out of bed to make her something to eat and I’ll be thinking to myself, ‘I
wish I could go back to the days where all she wanted was my boob in her mouth…”
and somehow I won’t remember it as a special kind of hell.
I’ll just remember it as…special.
Happy Tuesday, Friends.
go. do. be.
Aww. There is a silver lining. Pray for me.
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