Welcome to Hell...

Yesterday's post was a bit too cheery, if you ask me. Fortunately (ha ha HA!) for the sake of maintaining balance the shit totally hit the fan overnight.

Ethan's eye looked a little pink yesterday evening, and we were worried that he might have pink-eye. This morning he woke up with the pink eye, but also with severe vomiting and diarrhea. Oh, the joys of daycare! It might be a fun and loving child care facility full of learning and playing and games and friends, but it's also more germ-infested than the inside of a downtown Circle K toilet.

I knew Ethan would get sick once he started daycare, but I was thinking more along the lines of a cold or a cough. I've never experienced anything like this before. This morning D was lying on the couch while Ethan ate breakfast in his highchair, and I was in our room doing an hour-long circuit workout. All of a sudden I hear Sweetie! SWEEEEEEEETIE! I need some help. NOW! I bolted to the kitchen to find an enormous puddle of vomit on the floor. I took one look at E and immediately started bawling, because he's sick and miserable and there's nothing we can do to make him better. I hate this helpless feeling. I was all concerned about calling in tomorrow, on my THIRD day of work, to take Ethan to the doctor, but hell. What can you do? We can't afford for Drew to miss work, I have no family or friends willing to watch E while he's sick like this, and he can't go to daycare in this state. I am still not quite sure if he has pink eye or allergies or if the red eye is just a part of whatever virus has struck his fragile little system. He's napping now, and if he seems better when he wakes up we're taking him to a pharmacy to have them look at his eye. Of course this shit happens on a Sunday. You know, because OF COURSE.

Having your young child throw up in front of you is terrifying. After my workout I snuggled up on the couch with E while Drew got ready to run out and get some Pedialyte, and he projectile vomited again, this time all over himself, me, the floor and the couch. It almost happened in slow motion, and all I could do was prop him upright and tell him it would be ok. I stripped him down, stripped myself down and had D run a bath for us. We sloshed around the tub for a bit, and the whole time E had this dazed and confused look on his face and kept mumbling his great displeasure in baby language in this squeaky, sad little voice. My heart has officially been ripped out, stomped on, vomited on and then put through a blender. I just want my baby to be ok again.