One little monkey jumping on the bed ...

He fell off and bumped his head. Mama called the doctor and the doctor said, "Get that monkey to the ER for a CT scan!"

Man, I've got myself one mobile little monkey. I was changing Bigga's diaper on my bed early this morning, when Kiddle asked me to put Diego on for him. I made sure Bigga was smack dab in the middle and positioned so he'd roll either toward the headboard or the footboard, then went to help Kiddle. I was on my way back to the bed less than a minute later ... and heard a big THUD, followed by a piercing shriek. Damn kid had rolled DIAGONALLY down the bed and right off the corner by the footboard. And, boy, he was PISSED.

It took a bit to get him settled down, but he eventually got over it and took his morning nap on schedule. And even slept over an hour — despite the fact I was hovering over him, checking his breathing every two minutes. But when I was nursing him after his nap, I noticed some swelling on the side of his head. Uh oh.

To say I'm an underreactor when it comes to falls and runny noses and head bonks is an understatement. But even though he was alert and generally happy and not showing any typical signs of a concussion, I didn't feel good about this one. We dashed over to the pediatrician's office and she sent us on to the ER for a CT scan, just to rule out a skull fracture. Or, as it turns out, rule one IN. Yep, he's got a small fracture on the right side. But, thank goodness, no bleeding or swelling in his brain. We're at the hospital overnight for observation, with another CT scan in morning. If all goes well, we'll be out of here by lunchtime.

And, lord, my freedom from this place can't come quick enough. I've been here for 12 hours now and have pretty much decided that holding us for observation is my personal punishment for leaving him unattended on the bed. ("I swear I won't do it ever, ever again! Can we go home now? Pretty please!?") With the added torture that a hospital is the LAST place you want your five-month-old hanging out. I can practically see the H1N1 and staph germs wafting down the hall. Ugh.

I do remember not to whine too much, however, when I think of friends who have spent a truly unfair amount of time in hospitals with their little ones, battling heart issues and other things I can't bear to think about. Our (hopefully) brief stay here is really just a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. His pediatrician commented that skull fractures from that type of fall are rare and we were just "unlucky" this time. But considering how little damage occurred, as Mr. P said, "We'll just hope this is as unlucky as he gets!"

I've been so impressed with his spirit through all this. Everyone keeps asking me if he's "doing better" but I don't know how to answer that. I can't say he's doing BETTER, because he wasn't ever doing badly in the first place. He's been his usual sunny self, charming everyone he comes in contact with and taking everything in stride (except blood work and IV attempts ... that was traumatic). If we were doing this whole scene with Kiddle? Shudder. I can't go there.

***

One thing I'm grateful for during these extended hours in the ER and PICU: Kiddle doesn't get home from school until 3:00 and I knew I could count on two different neighbors to lend a hand with his after-school hours. Although two wacky coincidences threatened those positives. First, as I was leaving the pediatrician's office, on my way to the ER, my phone rings. It's Kiddle's teacher. Fuck. I answered with sinking feeling in my stomach. I just knew he'd gotten hurt or had a fever and she was calling me to come get him. But, no, he was fine. She just wanted to talk to me about the upcoming Halloween party. Whew!

Then, once we realized Bigga was going to be admitted, I left a message for LK's mom to see if she could meet Kiddle's bus at 3:00. But, a few minutes later, I see Mr. P outside our ER bay talking to someone like he knows them. I pop my head out the door and see LK's parents. And LK ON A STRETCHER. Fuck. It turns out she'd had a really scary respiratory episode — couldn't catch her breath, gasping, lips turning blue — so she was whisked away from the pediatrician's office by ambulance. Terrifying. Last I heard, her flu, RSV, etc. tests had come back negative, so they aren't entirely sure what happened and she's doing ok now. But that was sure the saddest, most forlorn little face I've ever seen on her. Poor thing.

Eventually Mr. P headed home to meet Kiddle and pick up the things I'd need for our overnight stay in the hospital. Kiddle went over to our other neighbor's house for a playdate with Jack and dinner — where he ate MEATLOAF, MASHED POTATOES AND APPLE PIE without question (although he did turn down the carrots). I think I'll send him over there for dinner every night. After getting us settled in for the night, Mr. P went back home to handle the bedtime duties. And you know what? The damn kid NEVER EVEN ASKED ABOUT ME. Hmmpph.

Update: And then he got up in the morning, got ready for school, got on the bus and still NEVER EVEN ASKED ABOUT ME. Where's the love, little man?

***

So here I sit, on my really uncomfortable chair that will turn into my even more uncomfortable fold-out bed, listening to the surprisingly noisy sounds of the Pediatric ICU. I'm so grateful that Bigga is relatively undamaged and handling the situation with ease, but so mad at myself for letting this happen in the first place. And thankful that, rather making me feel bad, almost everyone I've come across has countered with their own story: a friend's nephew with a skull fracture from a misguided game of throwing rocks, a pediatrician's son who rolled off a super-high pillow-top bed, a nurse's daugher who fell down thirteen steps onto a concrete floor. Accidents happen, I know. And I'm sure this won't be the last time we're in the ER. But it's simply the worst when your child bears the brunt of a quick decision you made.

Big sigh. Of relief and regret.

Staph, Blood and Hives, Oh my.

All sorts of medical drama in my extended family this week. My sister has an MRSA infection in her leg. Naturally the pain and swelling reached its peak while she was away on a girls' weekend. Nothing like a small-town emergency room on a Friday night. And Mr. P's two-year-old nephew had to have a rather urgent blood transfusion last night when it was discovered that his red blood cell count was dangerously low. It turns out he has an uncommon form of anemia that will correct itself eventually, but will require close monitoring and possibly more transfusions over the next few months. Very scary stuff, but we're grateful it isn't leukemia or lymphoma. And that we don't have to start referring to my sister as "Auntie Hop" anytime soon.

On a much smaller, less scary scale, I had my first call from the school nurse today. Kiddle has a runny nose, so I was expecting to hear that he had a raging fever. But instead she said, "Do you know he has a rash on his legs?" Er, well, yes I do. But it's not really a rash-rash ... he had hives on Sunday night and still had a couple of slightly red, slightly bumpy areas this morning. No big deal. Unfortunately she seemed to think it might be a big deal, and was concerned it was either ringworm (what?!), or Fifth Disease because his cheeks were so red. I can certainly understand how she might leap to that conclusion, so I had to reassure her that not only does Kiddle the Rosy Cheeked Boy always look like that, but also that we think he had Fifth last year. Fortunately this call was only about half an hour before the end of the day so I didn't have to pack up Bigga and go drag Kiddle out of school early.

Then he got home. And when I took off his pants, this is what I found. ALL OVER his legs and butt.

Um, that's disgusting. And definitely not what he looked like when I sent him off on the bus this morning. Dear School Nurse, I'm sorry for poo-pooing your earlier concern about my son today. Yes, now that I see him, I also think he looks like Patient Zero for a new strain of the plague. My sincere apologies. We're headed to the doctor RIGHT NOW.

But the doctor confirmed what I thought: no ringworm, no Fifth Disease. It really is a form of hives, simply a reaction to the minor snuffly-nose virus he has right now. The only bad thing is we have to push his flu shot off for another week.

Somebody put some pants on that kid! Gross.

Happy Birthday, my love!

It's Mr. P's 40th birthday today ... and I have to admit I haven't done much about it. But I have sooo many reasons why. Ready?

One. Anything he wants, he buys. So it makes it nearly impossible to come up with a good birthday or Christmas gift for him. Especially one he doesn't know about, because 99% of what he wants is very tech-oriented, making his participation in the selection process mandatory. In the past I've gotten him tickets to various events, but this year nothing stood out as something he would enjoy.

Two. We come from two different schools of thought on birthdays. That's not to say that I need outrageous gifts or a big party on my birthday, but I do like some acknowledgement and thought-through planning. He's not into the whole birthday-celebration-thing in general, and is really not into the details (i.e., one of my first birthdays with him ... an unwrapped season of Buffy and NO CARD), which has slowly dampened my enthusiasm over the years. Otherwise known as If-He-Doesn't-Care-Why-Should-I Syndrome.

Three. That said, I did throw him a surprise party (well, ALMOST a surprise ... thanks for busting it, Mr. Weeden. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Dan.) a couple of years ago. And I did it then partially because I suspected that, by the time his 40th rolled around, we'd have two small children and I might not get my act together. Self-fulfilling prophecy, I suppose.

Four. I thought we would have moved by now. And originally I had grand ideas of flying out a couple of his best friends to wherever we might be to celebrate, or at least sending him back home for a fun boys' weekend. But we're still here. And it doesn't seem quite as exciting to send him to Long Island from New Jersey for the weekend.

Five. I'm a cheapskate. Well, not really. But I am in regards to the fact that we're still looking at an out-of-state move in the (hopefully) relatively near future. All I can think of is the stuff we'll need when we have a bigger house, and I'd much rather get him a giant TV or create him a cave/office when the time is right, instead of spending money now on something he doesn't really need.

Six. And this is the biggest reason ... I suck. I hate that I'm so disorganized and scattered and uninventive right now that I didn't get it together to do something lovely and special for his 40th birthday. Particularly because he did such a nice job of planning dinner out with my friends and taking me to a play for my birthday. Hopefully I can make it up to him before his next birthday. After all, he's 40 all year, right?

Are we talking the same language?

Here's what happens when my regular English runs into Queens English (as in Da Queens, not The Queen's).

Me: Sweetie pie, will you rub my shoulders tonight?
Mr. P: Ok. When I'm ready.
Me: Will you be ready in two minutes?
Mr. P: No, I'll do it in a couple of minutes.
Me: Like I said ... two minutes.
Mr. P: No, in a few minutes.
Me: So ... three minutes.

Mr. P: Argh! Several minutes, ok?
Me: Well, why didn't you just say that in the first place?

Over the years we've encountered our fair share of regional differences in our speech. I say tennis shoes, he says sneakers. I say have my picture made, he says have my picture taken. He thinks I sound like a dumb hick, I think he sounds like an obnoxious Yankee.

But this concept of "a couple" continues to be a roadblock for us. It took me several years of "I'll be home in a couple of hours" turning into three or four — or, "I need to go to the office for a couple of hours on Saturday" really meaning five or six — to finally realize that a couple does not mean TWO. It means way more than two, in fact. Sigh. Why can't he just use English the right way? And, of course, that would be MY way. Sigh.

"I love trains!"

Note to self: Do not give the three-year-old a new train set at 5:30 in the evening, unless you want to have the following conversation an hour and a half after he's gone to bed, already clutching three new train cars.

Kiddle (sobbing hysterically in his room): Mommy! Mommy!
Me: What's wrong, Kiddle?
Hysterical sobbing continues.
Me: Kiddle, what's the matter?
Hysterical, yet suspicously fake, sobbing continues.
Me: I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong.
More sobbing.
Me: If you don't stop crying right now, I'm going back downstairs.
Silence, at last.
Me: Thank you. Do you need me to help you with something?
Kiddle: Yes.
Me: What do you need?
Long, quiet pause.
Kiddle: I need train tracks.

Needless to say, no train tracks were forthcoming. And he finally went to sleep about 10:00.

Perhaps it does grow on trees.

How exactly does a three-year-old know what money is? I kind of get that he understands that bills are money. But coins? Hmmm. I've certainly never made a point of talking about what money is. And, the reality is, he doesn't see actual currency that often since I put everything on my AmEx. Now, if he called a credit card "monies," I'd totally understand. A few recent financial transactions we've had:

A couple of weeks ago, he pulled out a change purse of random foreign coins from my desk drawer, opened it and started passing out "monies" to me. Um, thanks. That's MY money and I'm not headed to Europe anytime soon.

At the zoo last week he wanted to go on this little carousel ride (it had an elephant ... need I say more?) that cost 75 cents. He first said to me, "I need monies," so I, of course, directed him to his father. "Daddy, Daddy, I need monies!" he cried and POINTED TO MR. P'S POCKET. "I need monies in dere, Daddy." Yep, he's definitely got the concept down.

And today was the best. He dashed into the kitchen and said, "I found a penny!" Seriously, how the hell does he know what a PENNY is? Someone explain this to me, please. I'll have to test him tomorrow to see if he knows the difference between nickels and quarters. Perhaps I can train him to scavenge for quarters in the fountain at the zoo and actually contribute a little to the family coffers. He's extra cute. He can get away with it, right?