Because y'all- that has been the general theme of our Christmas this year.
Last Tuesday night, my oldest son Luke spiked a 102º fever. He had been complaining all afternoon of being "freezing" and spent the entire little's nap time snuggled under the comforter of our queen sized bed. Around 5pm, when he asked me if he could put on a SWEATSHIRT, I decided to check his temperature and sure enough, is was clocking in at a tidy 102.1º.
I immediately felt awful for ignoring his symptoms earlier that day. (Enter the latest round of Mom guilt to wash over me like the streams of vomit that were awaiting to cover me a mere 5 days in my future.) I dosed him with some Tylenol to help him rest and held him in my arms as he cried himself to sleep- complaining of stomach aches and tummy trouble. It was the sweetest and saddest thing ever, y'all.
He woke up Wednesday morning, still feverish, but much more like himself. He ran fever just above 100º all day, but that was without meds so I was hopeful that he was on the mend and had just suffered a weird 24 hour fever virus.
Y'all, I could not have been more wrong because in the wee hours of Thursday morning, Armageddon struck The McReynolds Manor. The righteous fury that unleashed itself onto my household began with alarming pleas from Luke's bed: "Momma! I hadsa accident! My bed is all weaaat!" I rushed into my Big Kid's bedroom to discover that his bed was in fact wet, but that to my 5:30am's disappointed version of myself- IT WAS NOT URINE.
I sprang into action, stripping sheets and pillowcases. I cleaned up my pitiful 4 year old Luke, and of course inadvertently woke up my sleeping 2.5 year old Josie in the process. I grabbed the spray bottle of rubbing alcohol and Lysol and got to work cleaning and sanitizing all the things and all the places. The big kids were pumped to be up so early, (I, on the other hand, knew what this was going to really mean come 11am.) especially because it meant sippy cups on the couch and early morning Netflix bingeing while I did everything short of dumping gasoline on their room and lighting a match to get it cleaned.
While I cleaned, Luke began to really get sick. I mean like the unavoidable, uncontainable, indescribable kind of sick that you hear Moms tell stories about but you doubt can really exist because it's just.that.horrific. The Brown Death had invaded, y'all. I was completely unprepared. Between trips to the bathroom (Which is a whole other sanitization process ENTIRELY: All the edges and lids and sides and bowls and floors and sinks and towels and hands. And it was every.single.time.it happened.) and outfit changes- the laundry pile really started growing. I was developing my very own Mt. Washmore and I began to worry that I wasn't going to be able to conquer it.
That's when, in true life/real world fashion, I was dealt another card because: THE BABY WOKE UP. And he was crying. Loudly. I walked down the hall, opened the nursery door, and before I even flipped on the overhead light- I KNEW. I knew that my life had just gone from 'bad' to 'worse' because as I innocently opened the nursery door the odiferous, wafting wall of the smell of baby dirt hit me so hard I'm surprised I didn't get a black eye. Before I'd even laid my eyes on the "situation" that awaited me in Nathan's nursery I knew it had to be BAD. And, sure enough, once my shaking hands managed to flip the light switch on, I beheld the carnage that awaited me.
It was as if The Apocalypse had occurred sometime in the night, and my sweet baby Nathan was the only survivor left. The state of his crib was so unbelievable that, for about :17 seconds, I was paralyzed. My feet were literally frozen to the carpet. I could view the scene before me, but it was as if my brain was not able to compute what my eyes were seeing. Baby dirt had exploded onto every surface and blanket and crib slat and sheet that was within a 45 ft. radius of the bed. Nathan was crying pitifully, covered in the same Brown Death as he stood there on that brown battlefield, crying for me, his Mom, to come rescue him from the carnage that had become his bedroom.
After my arms and hands and feet and brain began working again, I did the only thing I knew to do: I picked up my crying baby and brought him, fully dressed, to the bathtub. I took out all the tub toys and cups and wet washrags that were lying in the bottom of the tub from the previous night's bath with the only 3 fingers I still had that weren't defiled with the Brown Death. I plunked my pitiful boy in there while I undressed him and began to try to rinse out the jammie pants and top that would probably never be clean enough to be able to see the light of day again.
After I'd cleaned him up (And myself. Again.), I returned to the Apoloyptic scene waiting for me in his nursery. I repeated all the steps I'd completed in the Big Kid's bedroom while praying fervently that I had enough laundry soap to wash every blanket and towel and set of sheets in our house. The room was restored to order and sanitized- as was the rest of the house- and I began to leave the "Clean Up" phase of this saga and progressed to the "Virus Containment" section.
My sister-in-love and niece sprang into action, retrieving a long list of necessary supplies for me from the store: new bottles of rubbing alcohol and cans of Lysol and 561 bananas and 28 boxes of Saltines and economy sized boxes of diapers and wipes and a huge tube of Boudreaux's Butt Paste. They rolled into my driveway like a SWAT team, practically threw the supplies into my garage while holding their breath, grabbed the check to pay for all the groceries and were gone, all in less than 4 minutes. They were like angels sent straight from Heaven, ready to replenish my depleted pantry and help me stock my icebox with all the things that you need when you're doing battle and waging war against the Brown Death.
In the following days, we stayed home. We ate a million bananas and drank 48 gallons of Orange Gatorade. (Mom tip: Buy a can of the powdered Gatorade concentrate for just this reason. When my kids get sick, my number one concern is to keep them hydrated, especially when they're battling such a strong virus like this one. Bottles of Gatorade are bulky and take up lots of pantry/icebox space to store. A can of Gatorade is small, contains enough powder to make a small swimming pool full of electrolyte goodness and doesn't expire.) We developed a bathroom sanitation routine that we followed every.single.time we used the commode. We washed our hands like Pharisees. We went through paper towels and cans of Lysol and laundry soap like we were The Duggars and prayed that the Brown Death would pass soon.
Mercifully, Josie never succumbed to the Brown Death. Nathan fought it for a few days, but then emerged victorious. Luke, however, was not as fortunate. He waged war against the virus for almost a week, with no real improvement in sight.
I called our pediatrician's office on the morning of Day Five. She assured me that there was nothing else I could be doing or should be doing to help the virus end sooner. She said it was a particularly strong strain (She wasn't lying. I caught a stream of Gatorade and animal cracker vomit in my BARE HANDS not an hour prior to our phone call that morning.) that was taking 3-5 days to cycle through their systems. I had another angelic WalMart supply delivery from my other niece and I began pumping Luke full of Kefir and probiotics and bananas and smoothies. And by the end of Day 5, he was so.much.better. Hallelujah, y'all.
HALLELUJAH.
We are currently waiting with baited breath to leave Florida and visit our families for Christmas. While we don't want to be without our Louisiana relatives at Christmastime, we most certainly don't want to be those people who gave everyone The Brown Death that one year at Christmas. We've pushed our departure back 24 hours to give us an extra day to make sure everyone is healthy and happy and it looks like we just may make it.
I hope that you and your's are experiencing a healthy and happy Christmas season. And, if you're not- just know that you're not alone. This year, I've decked my halls with cans of Lysol. Instead of the smell of fresh baked cookies wafting through my house, it's been the antiseptic scent of diluted rubbing alcohol.
Despite these unwelcome circumstances, there have still been good times: We've watched Christmas movies and played with our white board Nativity pieces. We've read Luke Chapter 2 and made paper plate glittered angels. There are handprint Christmas trees hanging on our walls and our amaryllis bulb is finally blooming perfectly on top of our icebox. We've survived this less than perfect lead up to our Christmas season, knowing that as long as the five of us are together, despite our inabilities to fully digest solid food, we will still have all the Christmas spirit we need.
That said, we are still praying to close the 24 hour symptom free window in about an hour so that tomorrow we can leave to visit our families in Louisiana with clear consciences. Because, while The Brown Death is certainly the gift that keeps on giving, it's not one that we'd ever want to share this holiday season.
I pray that y'all have a blessed Christmas with y'all's family and friends. And, if there's a lagniappe piece of pecan pie at y'all's house- feel free to eat it for me!
Merry Christmas, y'all!
Last Tuesday night, my oldest son Luke spiked a 102º fever. He had been complaining all afternoon of being "freezing" and spent the entire little's nap time snuggled under the comforter of our queen sized bed. Around 5pm, when he asked me if he could put on a SWEATSHIRT, I decided to check his temperature and sure enough, is was clocking in at a tidy 102.1º.
I immediately felt awful for ignoring his symptoms earlier that day. (Enter the latest round of Mom guilt to wash over me like the streams of vomit that were awaiting to cover me a mere 5 days in my future.) I dosed him with some Tylenol to help him rest and held him in my arms as he cried himself to sleep- complaining of stomach aches and tummy trouble. It was the sweetest and saddest thing ever, y'all.
He woke up Wednesday morning, still feverish, but much more like himself. He ran fever just above 100º all day, but that was without meds so I was hopeful that he was on the mend and had just suffered a weird 24 hour fever virus.
Y'all, I could not have been more wrong because in the wee hours of Thursday morning, Armageddon struck The McReynolds Manor. The righteous fury that unleashed itself onto my household began with alarming pleas from Luke's bed: "Momma! I hadsa accident! My bed is all weaaat!" I rushed into my Big Kid's bedroom to discover that his bed was in fact wet, but that to my 5:30am's disappointed version of myself- IT WAS NOT URINE.
I sprang into action, stripping sheets and pillowcases. I cleaned up my pitiful 4 year old Luke, and of course inadvertently woke up my sleeping 2.5 year old Josie in the process. I grabbed the spray bottle of rubbing alcohol and Lysol and got to work cleaning and sanitizing all the things and all the places. The big kids were pumped to be up so early, (I, on the other hand, knew what this was going to really mean come 11am.) especially because it meant sippy cups on the couch and early morning Netflix bingeing while I did everything short of dumping gasoline on their room and lighting a match to get it cleaned.
While I cleaned, Luke began to really get sick. I mean like the unavoidable, uncontainable, indescribable kind of sick that you hear Moms tell stories about but you doubt can really exist because it's just.that.horrific. The Brown Death had invaded, y'all. I was completely unprepared. Between trips to the bathroom (Which is a whole other sanitization process ENTIRELY: All the edges and lids and sides and bowls and floors and sinks and towels and hands. And it was every.single.time.it happened.) and outfit changes- the laundry pile really started growing. I was developing my very own Mt. Washmore and I began to worry that I wasn't going to be able to conquer it.
That's when, in true life/real world fashion, I was dealt another card because: THE BABY WOKE UP. And he was crying. Loudly. I walked down the hall, opened the nursery door, and before I even flipped on the overhead light- I KNEW. I knew that my life had just gone from 'bad' to 'worse' because as I innocently opened the nursery door the odiferous, wafting wall of the smell of baby dirt hit me so hard I'm surprised I didn't get a black eye. Before I'd even laid my eyes on the "situation" that awaited me in Nathan's nursery I knew it had to be BAD. And, sure enough, once my shaking hands managed to flip the light switch on, I beheld the carnage that awaited me.
It was as if The Apocalypse had occurred sometime in the night, and my sweet baby Nathan was the only survivor left. The state of his crib was so unbelievable that, for about :17 seconds, I was paralyzed. My feet were literally frozen to the carpet. I could view the scene before me, but it was as if my brain was not able to compute what my eyes were seeing. Baby dirt had exploded onto every surface and blanket and crib slat and sheet that was within a 45 ft. radius of the bed. Nathan was crying pitifully, covered in the same Brown Death as he stood there on that brown battlefield, crying for me, his Mom, to come rescue him from the carnage that had become his bedroom.
After my arms and hands and feet and brain began working again, I did the only thing I knew to do: I picked up my crying baby and brought him, fully dressed, to the bathtub. I took out all the tub toys and cups and wet washrags that were lying in the bottom of the tub from the previous night's bath with the only 3 fingers I still had that weren't defiled with the Brown Death. I plunked my pitiful boy in there while I undressed him and began to try to rinse out the jammie pants and top that would probably never be clean enough to be able to see the light of day again.
After I'd cleaned him up (And myself. Again.), I returned to the Apoloyptic scene waiting for me in his nursery. I repeated all the steps I'd completed in the Big Kid's bedroom while praying fervently that I had enough laundry soap to wash every blanket and towel and set of sheets in our house. The room was restored to order and sanitized- as was the rest of the house- and I began to leave the "Clean Up" phase of this saga and progressed to the "Virus Containment" section.
My sister-in-love and niece sprang into action, retrieving a long list of necessary supplies for me from the store: new bottles of rubbing alcohol and cans of Lysol and 561 bananas and 28 boxes of Saltines and economy sized boxes of diapers and wipes and a huge tube of Boudreaux's Butt Paste. They rolled into my driveway like a SWAT team, practically threw the supplies into my garage while holding their breath, grabbed the check to pay for all the groceries and were gone, all in less than 4 minutes. They were like angels sent straight from Heaven, ready to replenish my depleted pantry and help me stock my icebox with all the things that you need when you're doing battle and waging war against the Brown Death.
In the following days, we stayed home. We ate a million bananas and drank 48 gallons of Orange Gatorade. (Mom tip: Buy a can of the powdered Gatorade concentrate for just this reason. When my kids get sick, my number one concern is to keep them hydrated, especially when they're battling such a strong virus like this one. Bottles of Gatorade are bulky and take up lots of pantry/icebox space to store. A can of Gatorade is small, contains enough powder to make a small swimming pool full of electrolyte goodness and doesn't expire.) We developed a bathroom sanitation routine that we followed every.single.time we used the commode. We washed our hands like Pharisees. We went through paper towels and cans of Lysol and laundry soap like we were The Duggars and prayed that the Brown Death would pass soon.
Mercifully, Josie never succumbed to the Brown Death. Nathan fought it for a few days, but then emerged victorious. Luke, however, was not as fortunate. He waged war against the virus for almost a week, with no real improvement in sight.
I called our pediatrician's office on the morning of Day Five. She assured me that there was nothing else I could be doing or should be doing to help the virus end sooner. She said it was a particularly strong strain (She wasn't lying. I caught a stream of Gatorade and animal cracker vomit in my BARE HANDS not an hour prior to our phone call that morning.) that was taking 3-5 days to cycle through their systems. I had another angelic WalMart supply delivery from my other niece and I began pumping Luke full of Kefir and probiotics and bananas and smoothies. And by the end of Day 5, he was so.much.better. Hallelujah, y'all.
HALLELUJAH.
We are currently waiting with baited breath to leave Florida and visit our families for Christmas. While we don't want to be without our Louisiana relatives at Christmastime, we most certainly don't want to be those people who gave everyone The Brown Death that one year at Christmas. We've pushed our departure back 24 hours to give us an extra day to make sure everyone is healthy and happy and it looks like we just may make it.
I hope that you and your's are experiencing a healthy and happy Christmas season. And, if you're not- just know that you're not alone. This year, I've decked my halls with cans of Lysol. Instead of the smell of fresh baked cookies wafting through my house, it's been the antiseptic scent of diluted rubbing alcohol.
Despite these unwelcome circumstances, there have still been good times: We've watched Christmas movies and played with our white board Nativity pieces. We've read Luke Chapter 2 and made paper plate glittered angels. There are handprint Christmas trees hanging on our walls and our amaryllis bulb is finally blooming perfectly on top of our icebox. We've survived this less than perfect lead up to our Christmas season, knowing that as long as the five of us are together, despite our inabilities to fully digest solid food, we will still have all the Christmas spirit we need.
That said, we are still praying to close the 24 hour symptom free window in about an hour so that tomorrow we can leave to visit our families in Louisiana with clear consciences. Because, while The Brown Death is certainly the gift that keeps on giving, it's not one that we'd ever want to share this holiday season.
I pray that y'all have a blessed Christmas with y'all's family and friends. And, if there's a lagniappe piece of pecan pie at y'all's house- feel free to eat it for me!
Merry Christmas, y'all!
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