let's talk about strep (4/52)

A few days ago, Ethan sneezed a couple of times. His eyes were glassy. I knew what was to come. Somehow in my gut, I just knew he had strep throat. "It can't be strep," everyone would tell me, "or he wouldn't be eating." Do other children do this, stop eating when they're sick? Maybe they do. I know that I can't bear to eat when my throat is killing me. This is never the case for Ethan. One time it took three days of incessant whiny and really awful sleep before I went with my gut and brought him into the doctor. My husband was sure it would be another case of paying a co-pay to be told there was nothing wrong with him, but it ended up being strep and a double inner ear infection. The doctor was just as shocked he was eating, but just that morning he had a huge breakfast. I blame this fully on my husband. He's the only person I know who insists on eating and drinking even through the stomach flu. Anyway, point being, on Thursday Ethan was still eating but he was running a low-grade fever and I felt my throat getting scratchy, too. He ate a parsnip muffin in the car on the way to the doctor, even. They swabbed him and confirmed that, yes, it was strep. Being pregnant, I felt my own scratchy throat and swollen glands and proceeded to freak out.

So, you know where I'm going with this. Strep throat, a first-trimester pregnant lady and a miserable two and a half year old. I didn't think we would survive Wednesday. Or Thursday. I began my "when are you coming home?" phonecalls to my husband at about noon. You know when you reach that point of first trimester nausea and exhaustion plus head congestion and swollen glands and a throat on fire and your kid is miserably sick and starts wheezing (thanks, asthma!) and you just can't care that he's coloring on the tile with markers? They're washable, after all. Yeah, that point. Plus banana peels and half-chewed apples and old tissues everywhere and general mass chaos and misery. You would think I would be used to the asthma game by now but, truth be told, it always freaks me out. No matter how poorly I'm feeling, I hear Ethan's asthmatic cough and feel twenty times worse. On Thursday evening my husband brought home my favorite Italian ices to help my throat and on Friday he worked from home. Having my husband home on Friday was just about the biggest bright spot I could imagine shining down on our miserable, dark, gloomy week. Ethan, who isn't pregnant and thus allowed the good drugs, was feeling a lot better on Friday minus his breathing issues. My head and glands were so swollen that even standing up to walk to the bathroom made me feel faint and the idea of chasing a two and a half year old was sort of daunting in that "I'm worried for all of our safety" way. Luckily I was able to spend Friday holed up on the couch under a blanket, drifting in and out of sleep and alternating that with The Wonder Years reruns. I'm determined that we're all going to kick this thing by this weekend and start next week off fresh and healthy. Which sounds like a great plan, you know, if someone stuck drainage tubes in my sinuses and helped me out a little bit here.

3/52

When Ethan was little, cooking dinner was difficult. These days, it's one of our favorite things to do together. Every evening he runs into the kitchen, pushes the step stool up to the counter and eagerly awaits the cooking process. He loves to help in the kitchen, which usually includes whipping up a "sauce" with whatever he sees on the counter. In this instance, it was some soy sauce, tomato sauce, black pepper and cinnamon. "Daddy will just love this," he giggled with every stir of the basting brush. The envelope sitting under the box of tomato sauce is his recipe. Whenever he holds it up, examining the words printed on the envelope, he nods and confirms: "add more salt. The recipe says add more salt."

1/52

I've decided to participate in The 52 Project this year, with a portrait of Ethan once a week for a year.

This photo was taken tonight at bedtime. Ethan and I spent the bulk of today submerged fully in laundry that had been piling up to the point where it could no longer be ignored. I had completely forgotten to pull my camera out until moments before bedtime as I sat on the couch, in between piles of folded laundry, trying to take my first deep breath of the day. I heard Ethan and my husband giggling from down the hall, deep in thought about which bedtime stories to choose. Chamelia? Pete The Cat? Square Cat? The almost-forgotten photo, the scrambling, it sums up our days lately. Ethan smells like apples and freshly laundered pajamas, the product of our earlier hard work, and tiny bags are forming under his eyes. Last night was the second night in a row that Ethan actually slept through the night and looking into his tired gaze, I am wondering if we can make it a third. These past few days have been so full.