To say there was poop all over the bathroom this morning does not do my son or this particular bowel movement any justice, and we wouldn't want anyone or anything being denied their proper due, now would we? I think not.
Allow me to back up. This week has been slow but stressful. Punkin had another mystery sore throat and high fever Tuesday (beginning at 1am, thank you). Tuesday is one of my respite days and I also had an appointment with a psychiatrist that day to evaluate my anti-depressants. Luckily Oma was able to watch Punkin during my doctor visit, but I missed respite completely. I didn't have anything other than an oil change planned, but it's hard to miss those hours when you feel like you're a human magnet.
By Thursday morning Punkin was back to normal and we spent the day at school and then swimming with friends. Then 1:00 Friday morning came and I thought, "You have to be kidding me." It wasn't just that he was awake, it was that at about the 4am mark he began moaning. And I began questioning my sanity.
Oma came to my rescue because she is THE MOST AWESOME WOMAN EVER AND I CAN NEVER REPAY HER and let me drop him off at her house at 6:45 on my way to work. His fever came back, I cancelled respite for the evening, and by the time I came to pick him up at 2pm, he was running around with shreds of paper wearing a swimsuit and asking for noodles. I took him home and he hasn't stopped eating since.
Now, back to this morning. I've missed all of my respite for the week, I'm starting a new anti-depressant, and Punkin is being LOUD. I'm crabby, but it's okay because in a few hours I will be on my way to the spa for an hour long massage.
Twenty minutes before we're supposed to leave, Punkin runs into his room to grab his blanket. It takes longer than it should.
"Clean up me?"
And so it begins. See, the mess in the bedroom wasn't actually that bad. His underwear and swimsuit contained most it. The problem was the inevitable removal of those two pieces of clothing because he'd been so stopped up from being sick that once it came out, it wouldn't stop. The literal ___ hit the floor, folks, and it quickly spread all over the toilet, bath, and shower wall.
The wiping and soaping and spraying of cleaners was just never ending. By the time I started putting his shoes on to take him to Oma, it was too late. But I left anyway, called the spa, and they asked me to reschedule for next week. We went to Oma and Opa's house, where I continued to crab for what was probably an undue amount of time, and eventually bought some peach salsa from the farmer's market.
I'm eating that salsa right now and it is amazing. Maybe it was meant to be.
(If you are curious, I am switching from Lexapro to Pristiq, which seems to be having the same side effect as Effexor and Cymbalta -- muscle pain mainly in the calves, feet, hands, and lower arms. Back to square one on Monday, I guess!)