Well that was fun

Oh I’ve had a lot to blog about. And nothing. And everything in between. And not a lot of time. My new job is, well, full on. But it also bought us a house and for the first time in years has left us with something in the bank….so shutup already. It just means not a lot of brain space of writing, or reading, because I do both all day every day. For some reason writing exams & organising learning materials for 3,500 people each offering takes a bit of energy.

Anyhoo. The birthday from hell.

So we decided in the lead up to j-mans birthday to do the split party we’ve done twice already: little friends on one day, extended family on the other. It means the fun is spread over longer and jman is less likely to be overwhelmed. 

Plus, two cakes.

So the week before his party, Tuesday, he gets up out of bed, and there’s faint little red dots. ALL around his mouth. Kind of, well, everywhere. And I think “cool. Ok. We know this is hand foot and mouth, he can’t go to daycare, I’ll ring work..ten minutes in and the whole strategy is in place. And….that would explain why you were so goddam annoying on the weekend.” Whenever I have a few days with jman that just push me to the brink of insanity from his uncooperative clingy ness, it always turns out he’s getting sick.

I book in to the gp, phone work, phone hub-in-boots, and with regret postpone the kids party. We ain’t sharing that kind of love around. Work has been very full on, and I figure the working from home will buy me some brain space anyway.

But the GP isn’t convinced about the rash. She doesn’t know what it is. She shows me some pictures of impetigo and tells me what to look for, and that if it changes to this he needs to come back and get antibiotics. Yep, that’s cool…regardless, he ain’t sharing the love.

So Tuesday Wednesday I work from home, which isn’t hard as he’s feeling pretty crappy and just wants to chill on the couch for a way more than normal dose of screen time while we nurse his Festy looking chin. Poor bub.

Thursday hub-in-boots kindly volunteers to cop it so I can go in and clear some really critical deadlines. Oh and the eczema on my hand has gone apeshit. I blame the extra hand washing.

As I’m leaving Friday , I think “has that rash changed? Must text hub in boots about it later”, then promptly forget.

We decide to go ahead with the family party Sunday, his actual birthday, as everyone knows to be careful and there’s no other little kids. 

Friday evening I remember I’d forgotten, and book the boys in for a Gp follow up on the rash. It looks worse but isn’t anywhere else except his chin.

Impetigo. 

Change of cream, all good, doesn’t need antibiotics, just a cream.

So Sunday rolls around. His chin looks a bit better, everyone is excited to see the big three year old. He is excited/ blown away to see we’ve turned the entire apartment into a wooden thomas the tank engine train set., thanks to some savvy second hand shopping and a timely house move from someone at work whose kids outgrew thomas. 

We get to grandmas  and he opens a few gifts. But he’s off. He tells me he feels sick in the head. Dizzy? He plays half heartedly, laying his head on the seat every few minutes. I get some neurofen into him.

Eventually, he’s just looking bad, and I take him in my bro’s bedroom ( my old room) for a nap. Family have all arrived. Tables full of amazing party food.

He erupts like a volcano. I am wearing a carpet of vomit. Seriously. Bathing in it. I don’t even know where to start. Somehow, we bundle him and I into the bathroom. I hit the shower while he is rinsed off by family members. We all find fresh clothes. Beds are stripped. Ice blocks are eaten. He looks much better. WE begin to relax.

He erupts again.

Clothes are changed. 

He asks to go home. Sadly. Piles of unopened presents all around us. 

It probably takes us another hour to de vomit, pack and leave. I am wearing my brothers clothes.

He holds it together, all the way home.

Then he erupts. 

His temperature soars. He’s cracking 39.8C (103.6F). He can’t keep down anything. Hours pass. He drinks. He chucks. He eats ice blocks. He chucks. Then he stops making sense. Then he stops talking. Then his eyes start rolling back in his head. At this point, I’m calling it. We try a home dr service but the wait is hours long. Off to the hospital.  His heart is very rapid, his breathing laboured and erratic. Temp still crazy.

In the hospital  they are pretty fast. Panadol suppositories, strip him off, ice blocks. Bing. He starts talking after hours of silence.  And after pretty bad dehydration, we’re in the clear. It was long long day. And I’m wearing my brothers clothes.

We have another two days at home. I call in sick, because, well, he just wants to lay on me. I’m pretty sure I’ll get it. I mean, how could I not? 24 hours after his birthday we sing and blow out candles. Peel off icing and allow plain cake.

Wednesday I’m back at work. We are ok.

So we postpone the party from the 2nd to the 16th. And on the 12th I’m at work and think, my shoe must be rubbing. My foot hurts a bit. But I’m wearing stockings so I don’t look. The next time I wander around the office I think my foot hurts a lot. By the time I am going home, I can hardly walk. Really.

When I get home I peel off my stockings, to find the swollen red mess of weirdness. Impetigo. On my foot. But crazy bad. Of course, I have team members flying in from interstate the next day. Of course I do. In the morning it is so bad I make time to go the GP. He draws around my swollen red foot with a texta, explaining if the red moves, I’m in hospital. NO IFS or buts. Super strong anti biotics.

So i carefully cover it and I go to work.and it swells. And swells. And swells. And he instructs me to photograph it every hour. AND IT gets redder. 

I spend Friday with my work colleague at my house, foot elevated, staying quiet. I revisit the doctor and we kind of seem still bad, but not getting worse.

Sunday, Festy foot is a lot better. And finally, we have a birthday party. A few little friends, pass the parcel, tea party on the verandah, a piñata, they play trains, go hilariously nuts to 75 replays of the wiggles singing ” michael finnegan”…we eat a bucketload of sushi, arancini and chocolate crackles and sing happy birthday. The end.