A Fried Chicken and Bananas kind of day

It started yesterday afternoon when Carson hobbled off the bus.  He's kind of a hobbler by nature - jumping (sliding, dancing, leaping, hopping, skidding) from foot to foot rather than just walking - so unusual movement from that little body is a little more... well... usual, I guess.  But this time the hobble was a bit different.  A bit more subdued than normal, and a bit more consistent.  "What happened to your foot, Bud?" I asked.

P.E. happened.

Apparently, during his one hour per week chance to run around and be a kid (which, if you ask me, is quite ridiculous... one hour a week?!  But I'll be kind to not step onto my soapbox so I don't get too lost on a tangent), he fell from a bar and landed a bit funny on his foot.  A closer inspection revealed that it was the top of his foot that was impaired, and by this morning he was unable to walk on it at all.

Plus, Miles was spiking a fever.  So the three of us stayed home together, all for different reasons, and enjoyed the day.

Turns out it was a perfect day to keep my sweet kindergartner home.  While tragedy was striking those sweet babies in an elementary school in Connecticut, I was sitting side-by-side with my own babies, playing Mario Brothers.  Later, we settled down into the couch and ate cheese cubes and crackers along with our tall glasses of chocolate milk while we watched Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  We read stories and watched more TV.  I guess we were waiting for the time to pass until Carson's 4:15 appointment at the clinic, but it didn't seem like waiting.  It seemed more like living.

But hecticness broke out when McKenzie arrived home from school (which I suppose is a form of living, too).  "Grab your shoes, kids.  Time to get in the car."  By this time, I was a little reluctant to keep the appointment at the clinic because (of course) an hour earlier, Carson had started exclaiming excitedly, "Hey!  My foot is feeling better!  Watch!" at which point he would demonstrate his ability to stand on it.  Miles looked terrible (and terribly cute) all snuggled up on the couch, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed and watery.  I didn't really want to drag him out to the clinic to get Carson's foot X-rayed.  But... today was Friday.  If I waited until tomorrow or Sunday, then I'd have pay triple the price for the same services because they would be performed in the ER.  So, "Grab your shoes, kids.  Time to get in the car."  Better safe than sorry.

Then, a groan.  A whimper from the couch, and Miles spewed buckets full of liquidy chunks all over the couch.  And the pillows.  And the rug.  And his clothing.  And his hair.  We rushed to the bathroom to finish the job where more liquidy chunks were deposited on the tile floor around the base of the toilet, plastered to the wall behind the toilet, and eventually found dripping down the outsides of the toilet (collecting in a nice pool at the base).  Many inside the toilet bowl itself?  Nope.  But, kids are more important than messes, right?  So, Miles was quickly (but lovingly) stripped naked, and placed into the tub where the warm water was gently rising.  I grabbed a container of Clorox wipes and went to work on the bathroom while telling the other kids to please go get into the car. 

"Can we have a snack first?" they asked. 
"Well, we're already going to be late," scrub, scrub, scrub, "so I would appreciate it if you would... don't step in the vomit! ... if you would just go get into the car."
"But!  We're starving!"
"Okay... um... grab a cheese stick.  But then go get into the car." Scrub, scrub, scrub.

Next, I grabbed the Resolve and went to work on the couch, the pillows, and the rug.  I have a slight issue cleaning up vomit into the kitchen sink (I know... go ahead and think it's weird... it just feels wrong), but our bathroom sink drains are not quite big enough for even very small chunks, which leaves the kids' bathtub and my shower.  Since Miles was in his bathtub, I ran back and forth from my bathroom shower to the offending spot several times before the chunks were all gone... the whole time watching the minutes tick off the clock and thinking to myself now we will be at least 7 minutes late.  8 minutes. 13 minutes.  Finally the fabrics started smelling less like vomit and more like Resolve, so I turned my attention to the 3 year old in the bathtub.  Scrubbing him clean, I tried to offset my frantic rushing with soothing words.  Eventually, he was dressed in clean, dry clothes and loaded into the van (holding a giant blue bowl in case anything else wanted out of his body) with the other children who had been eating their cheese sticks obediently in the car.  (Bless them)

It was at this point that I realized I was wearing my skinny jeans and had absentmindedly put my slightly oversized running shoes over my feet, which gave my legs a sort of upside down sledgehammer look.  But, we were going to be 20 minutes late by this point, so away we went.  I sped the whole 20 minutes to the clinic, all the while perfecting what I would say if an officer found my speed offensive enough to pull me over. How could an officer give a crying mother a ticket (yes, I could have turned the water works on quite easily by this point) when she was talking about broken feet, a clinic visit, a vomiting 3 year old and a cramping baby bump (which has become quite uncomfortably common this pregnancy)?  Thankfully I didn't have to perform my speech. 

After parking, we shuffled out of the car one by one and, much to my dismay, I realized that somewhere along the drive, my back had seized up (another thing that has become quite uncomfortably common this pregnancy.  It's manageable as long as, when it happens, I don't need to put any weight on my left foot since that sends a shockingly numbing pain through my spine that causes me to crumple to the floor. Slightly embarrassing in public, I would imagine).  It was most definitely in response to my scrubbing the floors just minutes before, and left me trying to figure out how I was going to make it into the clinic without using my left foot.  I unbuckled Miles, closed my eyes for a split second to shoot a prayer to the heavens, Uh... help? while I reached for my purse.  My hands closed around my purse while my eyes were still closed and I pulled it out, upside down, to sling it around my shoulder.  Pens, chapstick, coins, wallet, and tiny toys went cascading down my side to the pavement and under the car.  I bent down, barely refraining from using a curse word, to collect it all back together.  Standing up, I tested my left foot and found, to my relief, the pain to be manageable.  Even so, I'm sure we were a sight to see walking into that clinic.  I can see the wordy headline: Pregnant Sledgehammer Mom, holding large 3-year-old (holding giant blue bowl) hobbles, 20 minutes late, into clinic hand-in-hand with hobbling son.  Daughter seems fine (though, she is also wearing tennis shoes with her skinny jeans.)

I then watched, frustrated, as Carson explained to the Dr. that it didn't really even hurt anymore.
Diagnosis?  Give it more time.
No X-ray needed.
A little Ibuprofen should do the trick.

"I thought that might be the case," I explained.  "I just didn't want it to get worse over the weekend and end up taking him to the emergency room."
"No, it's good you came in," he lied... but it was nice of him to say anyway.  "Two pieces of the puzzle that made it wise for you to come in are that the type of fall is consistent with small fractures, and that the pain is on the top of his foot, which is also consistent with small fractures.  Really, I'd say there's still a 5-10% chance that something is broken, but even if there is, I'd just say take it easy."  Again, how nice to try to make me feel like I hadn't wasted the last hour of my life. 

But the fact remained, it was a wasted trip.
I hate those.

We hobbled back out to the car and the children started asking about dinner.
Oh yeah.
Dinner.
Hm.

"Who wants to go get a pizza!?" I said, trying to sell it.  It worked with 2/3 of the children (but Miles didn't want anything, so he didn't really count), and we started making our way up to Little Caesars to get three Hot 'n' Ready's.  Halfway there, Miles started groaning in the backseat again.  Then hiccuping, then screaming, "I needa cough!  I needa cough again!"  Translation: prepare for stomach content departure. 
"Hold your bowl up, sweetie," I reminded.
"I not wanna cough inna bowl!  I wanna cough inna basstub!"
"Well, we don't have a bathtub right now, Miles," Kenzie offered.
"KENZIE!  DON'T SAY DAT!" he yelled. 
Spotting a KFC, I said, "How about some yummy fried chicken instead?!"  Grabbing the consent from the older two kids, I swung behind a large white truck in the drive-thru line.  I have never been in the drive through line at KFC before.  In fact, I think the last time I ate KFC was back when I was in high school.  But, here we were, scanning the menu for the best deal, all the while hearing Miles fighting back the vomit.  "I not wanna cough inna bowl!"
No time to find the best deal. 
"I'd like an 8 piece family chicken bucket, please," I began into the speaker.
"I NEEDA BASSTUB!"
"Is that all, ma'am?"
"Mom!  I want one of those drummy, leg things!"
"I GOING *cough* I GOING *gag* *dry heave* *dry heave*"
"Ummm... and 5 biscuits, too."
"Mom!  Miles is going to throw up right now!"
"Mom!  I want one of those drummy, leg things!"
"Anything to drink, or any sides with that?"
"Nope.  That's all, thank you."
"Mom!"
"BASSTUB!"
"Drummy leg things, Mom!"
"Your total is $16.14 at the window."
"Mom!  I want one of those drummy, leg things!"
"Thank you."
"Did you get me a drummy, leg thing?"
"Yes, Carson.  Miles, remember your bowl, buddy!  Kenz, is he holding his bowl?"
"Yes."
"I NOT WANNA COUGH INNA BOWL!"
"$16.14" said the man at the window.

It was a small miracle that we made it home with no vomit.  When I spotted our house, all lit up with Christmas lights, I started cheering, "Daddy's home! Yay! Daddy's home and he turned on the lights!"  I didn't know he was home, and I didn't know he had gotten off of work a bit early today and would have been completely happy to figure out dinner for the family and have it ready by the time we hobbled into the house.  I didn't know because my phone ran out of battery two days ago and refuses to charge again.  I feel a little stranded without it...

So, we all had fried chicken for dinner.  Well, all except Miles, who finally got his bathtub.  And enjoyed a banana for dinner instead.