Did you ever have one of those days where nothing seemed to go right?

Today was that day for me (you could argue that the last 380+ days have been like that for me, but I’ll put that aside for today’s story).  Today’s story actually started on Friday afternoon.  That was when I discovered that Maura had a fever of 103.  The good news was that the fever responded to the Tylenol and she was in relatively good spirits.   Friday night her fever spiked up to 105 in one ear and 103 in the other ear (yeah, go figure, I decided to take the average of the two).

On Saturday I decided to take Maura to the pediatricians just to rule out strep and see if they could pinpoint a diagnosis.   Well, strep wasn’t likely and the flu was ruled out.  So, she just has your run of the mill virus for which there is no medicine.  Yeah!

Sometime on Sunday, Maura decides that she doesn’t like Tylenol any more.  Grand.  Her fever has been vacillating between normal and 103 throughout the day.  She sleeps several times during the day at one and a half hour stints.  Bed time comes early for my little darling.

Did I say darling?  Oh no, I must be mistaken.  Someone swapped my charming little angel for a Toddlersaurous Rex from – eh, hem – Newark.  She didn’t want a bath.  Understandable given her fever, but she cried through it to beat the band (and my ear drums).  She didn’t want the eye medication prescribed to reduce the gunk that was building up.  In fact, she screamed a scream from the 9th circle of you-know-where that just about peeled the skin off my face.  Then she refused to take the Tylenol thereby dashing any hope that my sweet little girl might return and that I would be getting any sleep.

Well, I got Maura to bed and came downstairs to find Malcolm drawing on himself with a black marker.  “Look, Daddy!”  I stood there briefly with my mouth hanging open spewing nonsense about what I should do with my children, when finally Meredith knocks some sense into me and tells me to take the marker away.  I take it away, he cries.  Victory for the parents.

Fast forward to 10:30pm.  Maura “spills” in her bed.  Spill is Maura’s word for vomit.  At first I panic and wrongly assume that the end of the world would be coming shortly and that I was woefully underdressed.  Then after surveying the situation it appeared that Maura had merely coughed her way into “spilling”.  I did a superficial cleaning and put her back to bed.

Fast forward to 1:30am.  Malcolm comes trundling down the stairs*and whimpers something about not sleeping.  Mommy hears him, tries to console him, and tries to get him to come into our room, but he is stunned by the darkness that he meets at the bottom of the stairs.  I wake up halfway through this exchange thinking something is dreadfully wrong and I spring out of bed (like a well worn set of shocks, I might add), and dash toward the stairs without really knowing what’s taking place.  Well, fortunately for Malcolm, it took me several tries to get my glasses on my face properly and at least twice to get my crocs on without breaking my ankles otherwise I might have bowled him over on the way up the stairs.  By the time I arranged myself in some manner of midnight manliness, I realized what was going on and was able to approach my whimpering 3-year-old with some degree of 1am tenderness.

Muttering something about the dark and not sleeping in his room, I brought Malcolm back up stairs and tried to get him back to sleep.  He wanted nothing to do with staying up in his room for some reason.  I told him that I was going to sleep on the bottom bunk while he figured out what he was going to do.  He promptly climbed into his crib and went back to sleep.  Of course, I didn’t want to leave right away for fear of setting off a cry of alarm, so I stayed put in the bottom bunk.  Tucked in nicely.  An extra blanket on top.  Mmm…

Fast forward to 3:30.  Malcolm is asleep.  And so is daddy…in Malcolm’s room, on the bottom bunk.  I lay my head back down to sleep some more when I realize that I wouldn’t be able to hear Meredith if she needed to use the bathroom.  So I got up quietly and glided down the stairs so as to attract the least amount of attention to me departure.

As soon as I hit the bottom step, I hear Meredith calling out for me to help her to the bathroom.  Fortunately, she just started asking for me and was not stricken with a bladder infection from holding it for the two hours that I had fallen asleep upstairs.

The next day…well, my classes are a joy (sarcasm alert), I can barely contain my enthusiasm for teaching (sarcasm alert), and I spilled chicken noodle soup on one of my nicest shirts (just the facts).  Gah!

The good news…our Federal Income Tax return came in the mail, today (the bad news about that is that I hate the fact that I loaned the government any of my money in the first place); Malcolm and Maura ate a reasonable dinner considering their battles with the fever; everyone is in bed except me and I will be there soon.

I know that you have days like these, too.  My advice to you?  Open the soup lid away from you.

Marc

*I have a story to share about Malcolm and his crib, but that will have to wait.  As I mentioned, I need to be in bed soon, or else Tuesday will very likely be a repeat of Monday.

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