By Jill Keppeler
You may have noticed my absence from this spot two weeks ago. Here’s what happened. Forgive me if it’s a bit of a blur.
1:30 a.m. Feb. 15: Sam, the 19-month-old, wailed from his crib. Now, it’s not unusual for the kid to pull the I’m-starving-staaaarrvvvinngg-I-tell-you routine in the middle of the night, but this one was different.
My husband, taking one for the team, dragged himself out of bed and stumbled into the next room — whereupon we’re all awakened by the unmistakable sound of a toddler getting sick all over himself, his crib and a half-awake parent.
Little did I know that would set the tone for almost the next week.
We’re experienced enough parents by this point to be able to swing into action with alacrity, despite the grogginess. I took poor Sam, got him calmed down, took his temp (mild fever) and soothed him back to sleep. My husband, already a mess, took on the rest of the mess — leading to the immortal line, “You can keep your roses and candy. Real Valentines clean up the baby puke.”
At this point, the 5-year-old woke up and wanted to know what was going on. My husband, newly scrubbed up, went to get him back to sleep. I stayed with Sam, who was sleeping on my shoulder and fussing whenever he was put down. I broke our usual rule and held him, just barely dozing myself.
3 a.m. The baby woke again. Wailed. A bit of juice was ejected very quickly, leading to a mad dash to the bathroom just in the nick of time.
5 a.m. Repeat.
6:30 a.m. I’d slept about a collective two or three hours all night, my own stomach was upset and so was my husband’s. I made the phone call. I’m sure my bosses have valid blackmail material somewhere on their voicemails, because I’m sure I sounded barely alive.
7 a.m. to 9 p.m. We spent the rest of the day in a groggy holding pattern.
One lackluster little boy sat on my lap all day, gamely keeping an eye on the rest of the family. He’s normally such a dynamo. The difference was alarming.
Of course, this was the week the 5-year-old was off school. He’d dearly love his brother to play, but he seemed to get that that wasn’t happening. Instead, he brought his little brother books and toys, and the occasional hug. What a good kid.
We napped. We played cards. We watched the Olympics (Sam likes snowboarding — God help me).
Gradually, the baby was able to keep some bland food down. I crossed my fingers.
Our stomachs settled. Maybe it was just the after-effect of dealing with the mess, after all.
9 p.m. Somewhere, a switch was flipped. Sam bounced off my lap and ran to his toys, giggling. I’ve never seen such a rapid turnaround, but I believe firmly in counting my blessings.
Could this be it? Maybe the rest of us won’t get it at all.
The night, and all of Feb. 16, passed without incident. I could use a heck of a lot more sleep, but so what else is new?
After a day in the midst of my family, actually, I was a bit grumpy. They were all home, and I was not. What’s the point in having a great family when you never get to see them?
1:30 a.m. Feb. 17: Uh oh.
I woke from a sound sleep with a churning stomach. Who says toddlers never share?
I spend the next few hours in the bathroom, then groggily made another 6:30 a.m. phone call.
My husband, still healthy, told me to go back to sleep. I did so.
At 12:30 p.m. or so, I stumbled downstairs to curl up on the couch and watch Olympics coverage with my family. The worse is over, I think. Thank heavens this seemed to be a 20-hour bug. I had no energy, but I figured that’s something time will cure.
1:30 p.m. Feb. 17: Jimmy, up until this point robustly healthy in the midst of the illness surrounding him, climbs up on my husband’s lap and is promptly sick all over the place.
Seconds later, so is my husband.
It’s a good thing I’m feeling a bit better, because I now have two new patients.
By early evening, I send my husband to bed and take over dealing with the children. Jim falls asleep watching his beloved Elmo.
Sam, long over the illness he’d wound up giving to everyone else, is annoyed. No one wants to play! What’s wrong with you people?
I plopped him in his crib, back where everything started, and prepared for one long night.
7 a.m. Feb. 18: Yep. It’s been a hell of a night, full of running back upstairs to attend to a wakeful baby and back downstairs to attend to a sick 5-year-old.
Still, by the time morning rolls around, stomachs have settled. Husband and older son cautiously ate breakfast (the toddler wolfed his down).
I’m exhausted. All the same, I drag myself into work. We have family plans the next day — health permitting — and I need to get things sorted out for the weekend.
The Keppeler family survives another week.
•••
I wish I had more time for my family. I probably always will.
But this week from hell taught me one thing: They’re there when I need them. All of them.
And that, after all, is what a family is.
Jill Keppeler is a columnist and page designer for the Tonawanda News. She can be reached at jill.keppeler@tonawanda-news.com.
