Irish Eczema

We went to the pediatrician's for our 4-month check-up about a week ago.

While there, I had them look at a little rash that comes and goes on Ella's chest and tummy from time to time.*

It looked like heat rash. It wasn't angry in appearance or infected. It was just a little rash that would flare up and then go almost completely away as if on it's own.

The doctor had only glanced at Ella when she exclaimed, "Eczema. She has eczema."

I, of course, freaked. I'd read enough to know that eczema is related to allergies and asthma, and just like allergies and asthma, eczema shows a generally weakened immune system.

I immediately began to wonder what I'd done to weaken my baby's immune system.

I began telling the doctor everything I'd ever eaten, knowing that often an eczema-related outbreak is due to an allergic reaction to something internal, like dairy (which I don't eat), soy (which I don't eat), eggs (which I eat very little of), citrus, or gluten.

The doctor told me she didn't think it was a reaction to food at all, as Ella wasn't showing any other kind of reaction (digestive, behavioral, etc.) to a food source; it was just that Ella had "extremely sensitive skin."

She made some suggestions, and I left the doctor's office even more puzzled, believe it or not; her definition of eczema was nothing like what I'd define eczema as.

So, later, at home, after doing some reading, I deduced that, indeed, Ella didn't really have eczema, medically speaking, at all. She just had skin that was reacting to things.

In fact, what Ella had was much more likely to be classified as "drool rash," according to a few books I read and Dr. Google. Some doctor's classify that as eczema in babies, it turns out.

In addition, a conversation with my mother reminded me that Ella had not inherited my skin tone; she had my husband's skin and, in fact, my mother's - and both of them have extremely dry skin that flares up out of almost nowhere.

Later that night, my mother-in-law re-iterated what my mom had said. In fact, she had a name for it: "Irish eczema." (My husband's family is Irish and fair, as is my mother. I have my father's skin-tone, even though I, too, am half Irish.)

"All my babies had that," my mother-in-law said. "It's not real eczema. It's just sensitive skin."

So, with that, I calmed down.

But I still wanted to find a solution for the rash. And I wasn't thrilled with the doctor's suggestion: She wanted me to put prescription cortisone (a steroid ointment) on it.

But previous reading I'd done had linked cortisone use to respiratory problems and other immuno-suppressed complications. That was a last-resort, as far as I was concerned.

So I whipped out my natural healing books, Googled some things, called our local health-food store, and went to a few places, including Target.

Within a few days, Ella's "Irish eczema" was completely gone.

And, so, today, because so many of you requested for me to share what I did last week, here's what worked for us:

***

The cast of characters** I used are as follows:

From left to right: Emergen-C Vitamin C packets, Vitamin E capsules, olive oil, beta-carotene capsules, Shea Moisture Organic Raw Shea Butter & Argan Oil Baby Eczema Therapy, Dove's Sensitive Skin body wash, Boiron Homeopathic Calendula cream, Dr. Bronner's Baby Mild Aloe Vera Organic Hemp soap, Florasone Cream, organic chamomile tea, CJ's Butter, Aquaphor, multi-flora probiotic (including acidopholus), a peri bottle filled with chamomile tea, and Shea Moisture Organic Raw Shea, Chamomile, and Argan Oil Baby Head-to-Toe Ointment.

I'm not particularly attached to any of these brands. It's simply what was available at my health-food store or in my medicine cabinet. Largely, I think it's more important how you use these elements for healing that works.

(Quick Note: Natural/homeopathic healing is labor-intensive. At the beginning of this, I was putting stuff on Ella up to six-seven times a day. So if you're looking for a quick-fix, this is not your cup of tea.)

1. Make bath-time, tea-time

We now bathe Ella no more than every other day. Water in and of itself is drying to the skin, and she's a baby. She's not that gross yet.

When she is bathed, I brew a cup of chamomile tea; let it steep for about an hour, and throw it in her bath water, which is luke-warm at best. (I also add a few drops of organic lavender essential oil, as it has a calming effect on the skin, too.)

The bath is quick, and the majority of the time, we pour the chamomile water over her body.

Then, we quickly wash her down with one of two soaps: Dove Sensitive Skin body wash (not for babies, so watch their eyes) or Dr. Bronner's Baby Mild Aloe Vera Organic Hemp Soap. (I much prefer this option, but Dove is good in a pinch.)

When she doesn't get a bath, I quickly sponge her down with a cloth wipe and a few squirts of chamomile tea, which I keep in my post-partum peri bottle. (I knew that thing would come in handy again.) I do the same thing every morning, as well. Chamomile and lavender are calming, and they work topically, as well.

2. Layer on your treatments

Morning and night, I applied the following layers of ointments:

*Florasone - a homeopathic alternative to cortisone, which you use no longer than seven days. (I saw improvement in less than two.) In extreme situations, I'd use it four times a day, as the bottle suggests, but Ella's rash wasn't that bad.
* Calendula cream - a homeopathic treatment for skin irritations, burns, cuts, and abrasions; this stuff works wonders. I use it on diaper rash, too. It's a God-send.
*Vitamin E - I simply bust open a capsule and pour it on the rash and rub it in. (I only use this if I'm noticing a real flare-up or if the skin is starting to really flake and dry out. Vitamin E promotes healing, but you can use too much of it. So once the rash starts to improve and goes away, nix the Vitamin E.)
*Raw shea butter and argan oil ointment - It's a grainy, long-term, deep moisturizer and helps keep the skin hydrated, as dry skin is much more easily irritated. (I found it funny that the stuff I found that contains these ingredients describes itself as "baby eczema therapy." Obviously, this isn't just a problem for Ella.) A great substitute for this would be CJ's Butter - a cloth-diapering-friendly diaper rash cream. It's a colloidal ointment, though, that works on eczema, and if Ella has a bit of a rash in her diaper area, I use this instead of the raw shea butter treatment, as CJ's Butter is a little creamier and a little less intense.
*Aquaphor or lanolin - Basically, this last waxy layer works as a barrier method. It protects the skin from the rubbing of clothes, etc.
*Olive oil - I dab this on any dry spots she may have on her head, legs, ears, or arms.

3. Do up-keep during diaper changes

Every time I changed Ella's diaper, I re-applied the calendula cream and the raw shea butter treatment to the rash, even though it wasn't in her diaper area. Once the rash improved, I dropped the calendula and just kept moisturizing with the raw shea butter at each change. (The brand I'm using has a combined ointment, containing more chamomile, I keep in my diaper bag, as does California Babies, I believe.)

The goal is to keep your baby as moisturized as possible, in an effort to protect her skin.

4. Help your baby along with your own intake

I try and take Vitamin C, beta-carotene, an extra probiotic (acidopholus is best), evening primrose oil (not shown) and some Vitamin E if I notice Ella's skin flaring a bit. Internally, they help get the job done, and since Ella is still exclusively breast-fed, I have to take them for her to reap the benefits.

5. Consider a what else is touching their skin

I have bad news for all you Dreft detergent lovers out there: The stuff has chemicals in, too. That's why it's not safe to use on cloth diapers. And it may be causing a reaction on your child's skin, too.

Make sure you are using a true "free and clear" detergent on your baby's clothes (I like Dropps, which are great for cloth diapers, too) and add in an extra hot rinse when you wash them.

Also, consider buying lotions and soaps made from organic ingredients. It's just another way to eliminate something that may cause a reaction on your baby.

***

Hopefully, this works for you all who asked.

This baby, or "Irish," eczema seems far more common than I ever realized. And, lately, it has my baby taking baths and getting rub-downs like she's a member of some four-star spa. (Or Baby Jesus himself. One of the ointments we're using has frankincense and myrrh in it. You can imagine the Christ-child jokes that have abounded.)

But all that aside, thankfully, this combination of treatments seems to work. I wish I'd taken before-and-after pictures, as Ella's skin is clear as can be these days. Even my husband was in awe, and he's not easy to impress.

Simply put, she looks like a new baby.

***

*Our 4-month check up was literally three days after we were recovering from our first fever. I told the doctor that the fever had seemed to aggravate the rash - it was the worst I'd ever seen it - but the pediatrician quickly dismissed me, saying that "didn't make any sense." Still, considering how fast the treatment cleared up, I'm kind of mad that the doctor didn't listen to me. Because obviously, I wasn't making it up, and as Ella got healthier, the irritation cleared up super-quick, and I can't think it's all thanks to my mixture of ointments.

**I bought almost everything here at Target, The Vitamin Shoppe, or my local health-food store. I didn't receive any compensation for mentioning these products. It's just what I found that works.

***

Now, I'm no doctor. I'm not even an expert. I just combined some things I'd heard about and researched, skin-tested my daughter, and, knowing she could tolerate them, went for it. We got lucky, in part.

So, please let me know if you have any questions at all, but I'm sure this isn't everyone's be-all-and-end-all solution.

It's just what worked for us, and if it can help anyone else, I'll be thrilled.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

That Was Scary

Our weekend started out with a bang.

Especially considering I completely missed the fact that Trader Joe's finally opened in our town say, oh, a month ago, thanks to my post-partum haze, so when I realized that the grocery-store mecca was indeed ready for my perusing Friday afternoon, it was like Christmas come early around here.

I dragged Ella and the hubs there on Friday night. Eighty bucks later, I was on cloud nine.

My weekend could only look up, I figured.

Saturday wasn't half- bad, either. While not terribly exciting - the hubs worked all day and then went out on a guy's night that evening - it was business as usual, as mama here's got the boobs, and Ella, well, she kind of needs them. (Girl's nights out may be a thing of the past, I'm afraid.)

Still, going to bed Saturday, I wasn't upset.

Until I was woken up at 1 a.m. And then at 2 a.m. And then at 3 a.m.

All by a fussy, cranky baby who was struggling to breath through a heavy layer of phlegm.

At 4 a.m., I shot awake yet again, this time alert enough to realize this wasn't some night-time settling of snot.

My poor baby was sick.

And miserable, to boot.

She was coughing and shaking about from the rattling in her chest. Her nose was stuffy and runny. And her left eye was running and crusting shut unless I constantly took a warm wash-cloth to it.

Surprisingly enough, she didn't have a fever (though I expected she'd broken one a bit earlier in her wakeful evening) but she felt miserable, whimpering and nursing constantly.

By the time the sun came up, the poor girl was trying to rally. She smiled pathetically from my arms and cooed at the hubs when he woke up and joined us.

But she was so miserable that no sooner would the smile reach her lips then you'd see her head throb, and she'd whimper and plant her pale little cheek against my chest.

After two phone calls from other mom friends, who had babies with the exact same symptoms, I deduced that Ella must have caught something from one of the kids that came to a play-date at my house on Thursday.

Poor little girl.

And thus began our Sunday. We skipped church and instead spent the entire day with Ella up against our bare skin or nursing.

I've never been so grateful for the M*by wrap, as I ended up tying her to me just so, so that when she wanted to nurse - which seemed like almost all the time - she could simply move her head a few inches over and latch on.

We sat in the bathroom with her while the other parent showered, letting the hot steam do its work.

We rocked her and read to her and let her nap on us just like we did when she was days old.

Meanwhile, I began to work my way through the Five Stages of Grief.

Denial: She's just having an off day. She's not really sick.

Anger: OK, she's sick. Someone got my poor baby sick. I'm gonna kill that sucker.

Bargaining: Are you there, God? It's me, Brittany. I promise to volunteer for the prison ministry I'm afraid of at church if you let her not be sick anymore.

Depression: How could I let my little girl get sick? I'm the world's worst mother!

And, finally, Acceptance: She's sick. I'm going to sit in this rocking chair for the next three hours with her and sing nursery rhymes to her.

Despite it being fairly anti-climatic - because I can guarantee you, no one is writing a book about the mother rocking her sick baby in a rocking chair for hours on end - it was a harrowing day.

I was on edge, and every time I'd look at her sad face, wipe snot from her nose, and nurse her till I had nothing left, I'd almost break down into tears myself.

Finally, after the battery died in my digital thermometer and my husband refused to replace it, shouting at me, "Calm down, woman! Babies get sick! It happens!" I laid down on the couch with her and fell asleep for a few hours myself.

We didn't make it to bed till 1 a.m., our schedule being wholly thrown off thanks to the fact that Sicky had to sleep through the day. And, even then, I really didn't sleep at all that night, as I spent it getting up and down, figuring every rustle she made and every cough she let out was her way of saying, "Mama, I need you!"

Finally, I propped her up among the pillows in our bed around 5 a.m., hoping to help her drain the cold away, and I fell asleep myself curled around her - nursing her, yet again - for about two hours.

She woke me up at her normal wake-up time - 7 a.m. - as good as new, smiling and babbling and ready to play.

I, meanwhile, had a splitting headache and a back full of spasms.

Her energy was full restored, it seemed, at my expense.

***

It was one of the worst days I've had in a very long time.

The guilt and the worry and the complete sense of helplessness made me want to scream.

Sick kids are sad. Your own sick kid? The saddest.

Luckily, it was a minor cold. She recovered fine, thanks to the wonders of breast-milk and my healthy stash of vitamins (which I ingested like the dickens, hoping to give them to her.) In fact, she was so healthy come Monday morning, you'd never have known she was sick less than 24 hours prior.

On the other end of it now, I can look back with happiness that she thrived through it and developed some immunities that will help her later in life.

But in the thick of it, I wanted to freak out so very badly.

I despised seeing her in pain. Heck, I despised just seeing her lethargic.

Like I said, it was the worst day I'd had in a long time.

***

How do you cope when your kid(s) is/are sick? Have you had a completely irrational reaction, all because you're worrying about them? Please share below.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

When It's Hard to Be a Mommy

On the morning of the Fourth of July, I woke up with Ella on my chest, thinking I was dehydrated and hungry.

I'm still figuring out this whole "eat and drink more for nursing purposes" thing, and I just thought it was that combined with a fair bit of exhaustion.

So, I got up, nursed Ella, had the hubs bring me some food, and I tried to ignore the fact that it took every ounce of strength I had to keep my eyes open and hold Ella to my breast.

I was so weak, and, worse yet, I was in so much pain.

My head was pounding. I couldn't even look out the barely cracked window. Standing up made it seem like my world was going to explode.

It took all of about an hour for me to realize what was going on.

I had a migraine.

My first one ever.

Holy cow. I've never felt such pain. And I experienced natural childbirth, people.

I couldn't be around lights. I couldn't stand up. My head was radiating with such pulsating aches that, while nursing Ella, my husband had to hold me, and my head, up.

It was a nightmare.

Especially considering I had a 3 week old to take care of.

Still, before the morning was up, I knew I was in trouble. I was having to crawl from room to room. There was no way I could change my baby's diapers.

Frankly, I was afraid to hold her, simply because standing up made me so dizzy and pained that I was afraid I'd drop her.

Luckily, it was a holiday, and the hubs was off work. And, by lunch-time, we'd ascertained that all I was good for was laying in bed, so he took Ella, bringing her into me every two hours or so to nurse, or as she demanded it.

Which, as the evening came on, seemed to be happening more and more frequently. She'd basically scream if she wasn't at my breast.

Nothing my husband could do would help her.

But the second she'd nestle in next to me to nurse, she'd hush right up, suck a bit, then fall asleep.

After a day in which she only spent about 30 minutes with me, every two hours, to nurse, she was revolting, it seemed. She's used to being with me all the time, and while she loves her Daddy, she wasn't really thrilled to have spent that much time away from me.

So, she just kept demanding to nurse.

It was a really rough day, culminating with the fact that I finally had a breakdown, crying and sobbing to my husband, "I just want to be able to take care of my baby, and I can't even do that!"

I felt like a total failure.

Now, thankfully, my husband was home, so I could sleep off the migraine in our dark-dark bedroom in between nursing Ella.

But what if he hadn't have been? Would I have been crawling around our house, with Ella in tow? Would I have been able to change her diapers, play with her, put her down for a nap? What would I have done if my husband wasn't home? (Or, better yet, what will do if this happens, and my husband is deployed?)

While this made me all the more grateful that I won't have to go through life as a single mother, it also made me scared.

How do we take care of our kids when we can barely take care of ourselves? How do we make sure our babies are safe and happy when we ourselves are physically debilitated? And how do we push through our pain to help our kids avoid theirs?

If mommies don't get sick leave, what happens when we get really sick?

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Blessed and Then a Breakdown

I had fair warning that this weekend was going to be hectic.

My calendar had been full for months.

I knew what I was getting myself into.

But, being Classic Me, I wasn't really that phased.

After all, I'm a pretty high-energy person. I can get a lot done on any given day. And I'm kind of relentless when it comes to doing and joining and making things happen.

My husband calls me an "execute-r" for a reason.

Still, after a busy Friday, spent entirely on my feet, I went to bed tired.

Tired but excited.

I was going to spend all of Saturday with some of my favorite people doing some of my favorite things: exercising and celebrating my baby girl.

So, when I woke up at 6 a.m. Saturday, I was feeling chipper.

When I corralled up a bunch of my clients, I was feeling downright plucky.

And when I lined up with them at the race line for a local 5K we were all planning on running, I was, dare I say, giddy.

And then the race gun went off.

I won't go into too many details here. But let's just say I vastly underestimated how this race was going to go.

Granted, I did the entire thing. At 31 weeks pregnant. Pushing a 3 year old (one of my client's kids.) In a very uncooperative jogging stroller. On a 3.1-mile route that was made up almost entirely of rocky terrain and bumpy, uneven sand.

But the pictures of me crossing the finish line, in which I'm insanely smiling, also reveal the ugly truth: Running a 5K on a hot, humid Southern day when you're super pregnant and pushing a heavy load? Not the most athletic and graceful of moments a woman can experience.

Still, I did it. So did all my clients. We had a great time.

Except, I couldn't stay around to celebrate. I literally crossed the finish line and kept running to my car.

Because, before the race that morning, my baby shower had taken an unexpected turn.

My good friend hosting the shower here is newly pregnant herself. And sick.

Let's all take a moment of silence to ponder that.

Yeah, exactly. I have been there (so have many of you) and any woman in that position is lucky if she can sit upright long enough to focus her eyeballs without wanting to gouge them out.

The first-trimester is no joke.

Anyways, when said sick, pregnant friend called me at 7:30 Saturday morning to tell me that not only was she not up to snuff but her 1 year old was sick, too, well, we were up a creak without a paddle when it came the baby shower she was throwing for me and another pregnant friend of ours.

There was no way we could have it at her house. It wouldn't be fair to her, her son, or our (un-infected) party guests.

Still, we had 25 people expecting a party in little more than six hours and nowhere (uncontaminated) to host it.

So, we did the next most logical thing, seeing as I only live six houses down from my poor, dear sick friend.

I told her we'd just move it to my house. I'd go run my 5K, sprint home, and hope and pray I could clean my house fast enough to make it shower-presentable.

Blessedly, another friend of mine, sensing my panic, agreed to help and actually run the shower games, etc. (Part of my anxiety stemmed from the fact that now, I appeared to be hosting my own baby shower. And call me sensitive, but I was afraid of looking tacky.)

Anyways, with all hands on deck - the other pregnant friend who was also being honored at the shower jumped right in to help, too - I figured we'd just make it.

Enter me, in Whirlwind Mode.

So, yes, I ran the 5K, sprinted home, and kept running around my house, getting it ready. My husband went into work late to help me clean, but he did eventually have to leave, and I then managed to hoist a leaf into my dining room table, dig through my china, and climb on my furniture to hang streamers and decor, all while the few girls who rallied to help me cooked in my kitchen, text-ed me frantically about punch and appetizers, and tied balloons to my mailbox.

Finally, I managed to throw on a sundress, do my hair, and add some make-up about 15 seconds before the first guests arrived.

And then it was all baby games - the best being Baby Pictionary, in which one of my favorite clients screamed out, "VAGINAL BIRTH!" as her guessing option for the phrase "cut the cord," sending us all into hysterics - snacks and drinks, and the gift-opening tradition, in which I had to stop myself from crying about 18 different times because, seriously, I am so blessed to have met these women, all of whom I've known less than a year, but all of whom have embraced me because that's what we, as military spouses and mothers, do to survive and thrive.

The shower went smashing-ly. The last guests left my house at 7:45 - more than three hours after the party's original end time.

And, then, things got a little scary.

You see, about two hours earlier, I'd started to notice some nagging aches in my abdomen.

Thinking I was probably dehydrated, I downed a couple glasses of water. But I didn't stop moving because there were people in my home and a mess on every surface. If I wasn't socializing, I was cleaning.

Problem was, I noticed the aching getting worse. The pains were getting more severe. I actually kept having to stop and catch my breath from the cramps.

So, when the last guests left, I ignored my dirty kitchen and the piles of leftovers left on the buffet, and I sat down.

At this point, I was experiencing really painful cramps in my belly. And I hadn't felt Baby Girl move in hours.

I laid down promptly and started to poke my belly. She kicked right back, thank God.

But my pain got worse.

And then I noticed myself breathing rhythmically and deeply, just like we were taught to do in my birthing class.

And then, it hit me.

I think I'm feeling contractions.

I tried sitting up to get more water. And the intensity in my abdomen only got worse.

I ran to my purse to grab my cell phone, just in case. I wasn't yet convinced that I should be truly alarmed, but I wanted to have it on me, on the off chance I humored my weaker side and decided to call the midwives.

What alarmed me was that I'd had Braxton-Hicks in the past, and while slightly uncomfortable, they weren't nearly as intense as these. The pain was alarming, though not unbearable.

Still, I kept trying not to think about the fact that Braxton-Hicks aren't supposed to be painful. These were definitely not the same old Braxton-Hicks I'd been feeling.

So I lay there.

And lay there.

And lay there.

It took about 90 minutes for the pain to lessen, during which I just breathed and talked to my husband, feeling Baby Girl move around as if nothing was wrong.

It took another 30 minutes after that for the pain to go away.

More than two hours later, my face white but my "contractions" lessened, we finally breathed our first sigh of relief.

When I could finally manage it, I looked up what I'd experienced.

Apparently, I had been having contractions. Contractions brought on from exhaustion and fatigue and simply over-doing it.

It made sense, considering I'd been on my feet, adrenaline pumping, for about 16 hours straight.

Luckily, because I hadn't lost any fluids, wasn't experiencing any swelling, and, most importantly, because I could feel Baby Girl moving away, I seemed to be out of the woods. I wasn't really in any danger.

Thank God.

It was, quite honestly, the only time in this pregnancy I worried that I'd done something wrong. That maybe, just maybe, I'd hurt the baby.

Thank heavens, it seems Baby Girl is even tougher than me.

I spent the rest of the evening hobbling around, sorting through baby clothes and helping my poor husband, who blessedly cleaned up the majority of the shower mess so I could stay off my feet.

Lesson learned? I do have limits.

My body can do a lot. But it can't be pushed to the points it used to reach before. At least not right now. Not while it's growing a baby.

Combining a strenuous race with a social event in my honor that had to be unexpectedly moved to my unprepared home was too much for Pregnant Me, it seemed.

I hated to admit that. After all, I like being the "execute-r." I like being able to do it all.

Except, sometimes, I can't.

And it only took me 31 weeks into my pregnancy to find my limit.

***

Due to the fact that I was so caught up in prepping my house for the shower, I didn't take a single picture of the event. Not a one.

If there's one thing I would change about my weekend, it would be that. Because, despite my test-brush with contractions, the day had been pretty heart-warming and fabulous. I hate that I didn't capture that.

However, we do have pictures of me running that darned 5K. Because, honestly, who doesn't want to see a huge pregnant woman, sweating her face off, attempting to cross the finish line in a reasonable amount of time?

Dear me.

Anyways, I'll try and share those photos and more race adventures this week.

Until then, I'm learning to rest and realize that, at least for the next nine weeks, I can't do it all.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

Just Lovely

Remember how I was waxing on about my sweet Baby Girl yesterday?

I was feeling all sorts of sentimental, wasn't I?

Serves me right, I figure.

Because, driving home from work like I do every Monday, the vomit hit the fan.

Or, more accurately, it hit my steering wheel, my passenger seat, my cup holder, and everything else in range of my front seat.

I literally threw up all over my car and myself.

Or, rather, down myself.

It came completely out of the blue.

Literally, I only had enough forewarning to lift up the neck of my shirt and puke and puke and puke and puke down my own front half.

Sweet heavens, it was disgusting.

And for a woman who spent 18+ weeks puking like a pro, that's saying something.

I was sick as a dog. And furious.

At 28 weeks pregnant, I'd truly thought this was all behind me.

But the vomit gods had other ideas.

So did Baby Girl, it seems, as she took such great joy in my roiling belly that she felt the need to kick and punch me so hard that, no sooner had I cleaned up the car, but I was left running to the kitchen sink to puke some more.

And so set my pattern for the rest of the day.

Lay down. Baby kicks. Puke. Sit up. Baby kicks. Puke. Try to sip some water. Baby kicks. Puke. Call my mom. Baby kicks. Puke. Lay back down. Baby kicks. Puke.

Need I go on?

Late afternoon, I finally called the midwives. (You know it's bad when I do that. Because I am so the kind of girl that hates to be that patient. I mean, my child could be dangling out of me, and I'd still be asking, "Do you think I really need to call them yet?")

Anyways, they reassured me I'd caught the city stomach bug that was going around. Apparently, mommies who'd been around children (their own or others) were calling in right and left with the same 24-hour stomach virus.

Great. Just great.

I can't tell you how many babies I've held in the last three days. But I will tell you three of them started puking before I did, according to their mothers.

In short, I was doomed.

Luckily, the midwives weren't worried. They put me on bed rest till I could keep food down, and they re-scheduled today's glucose test for me till Thursday, because, as the midwife said, "Oh, sweetie, that's just not gonna work, taking that test right after you've puked all day. Plus, knowing you, it will only increase your chances of passing out when we draw blood."

I was so miserable, I hadn't even thought of that. And trust me, that's saying something. I'm so scared of needles I've been talking myself up for them to stick me for weeks.

I hung up the phone feeling a little relieved. And still ticked as all get out.

I remained that way until my husband found me, half-naked, sleeping by the toilet with my trusty bed nurse, Marvin the Dog.

He thought I was dead.

I laughed about that. Then threw up some more.

Sigh. I am so over this.

Since I've Been Gone...

Well, it's safe to say I checked out for two weeks.

I didn't blog. I didn't answer e-mails. I barely Tweeted.

Heck, I'm not sure I thought much while we were gone.

Suffice it to say that the week before we left for vacation, I was so stressed, so burned-out, so over it all, that I needed a few weeks to recuperate. Even more than I knew.

But, now, I'm back. We had a great trip, and I'm so glad we got to spend the holidays with both of our families.

Not to mention that we finally purchased a new laptop, and I can once again move about the house, blogging at will. That is, once I wrenched "my" new toy out of my husband's hands. Luckily, pregnancy hormones make me a force to be reckoned with. Otherwise, I may never get possession of "my" new laptop again.

Boys and their toys, eh?

The only downside to the last two weeks was the fact that I spent the first few days of the New Year afflicted with a cough-cold-flu that, quite honestly, made me want to cry, after combining with my pregnancy symptoms and rendering me pained, congested, and literally unable to sit up for three days.

So, now, I'm more thrilled than you can believe that life has returned to normal around here and that I can focus once again on growing this baby in my belly, blogging, and living and working as usual.

Nothing like a fun holiday to make regular life seem enticing, don't you think?

So, I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year! I'm playing catch-up with all of you other bloggers today. Thanks for your patience!

I'll be back with more vacation details tomorrow. Happy Monday, everyone!

A No-Veggie Man

I liked to think that my husband appreciated the thought and effort I put into cooking him healthy, well-rounded, organically based meals.

The crunchy salads. The roasted vegetables. The whole grains. The lean, hormone-free meats.

It took such detailed menu-planning. It took such extensive grocery-shopping.

And, most importantly, it took such inordinate amounts of time.

Which is why I thought the man ate it. Day after day, dinner after dinner, he chowed down on my hard work.

All the while, I sat beside him, eating along, glibly thinking that we sat there, forks raised, of one mind when it came to nutritional values and whole foods.

And then I got sick.

Really, really sick.

So sick that I couldn't eat food, let alone cook it.

My poor husband was on his own, feeding not only himself, but his wife, who could only consume a diet that was made up primarily of simple carbohydrates and flavor-less broths.

Last week, I could only eat crackers, bread, plain rice, and, on a good day, noodles with butter and a touch of salt.

So, my husband ate right along, chowing down on all my sick foods right next to me.

And, at first, I felt bad for subjecting the poor guy to food so void of flavor and nutrients.

What he couldn't give for a spicy piece of pork! I thought.

But, then, I watched him, chowing down on bowls of buttery noodles and, on the days I really couldn't eat anything, frozen pizza.

I watched him run out for take-out the second I thought I could manage something with flavor, not a hesitation in his step.

And I pondered how, when he helped me make up the grocery list for the upcoming week, he suggested we have more of that "sick food, like those noodles and stuff."

Then, it hit me.

My husband likes this.

He actually enjoys starchy foods slathered in butter and salt and enriched with approximately 0.00000001 percent of you daily vitamin needs.

Better yet, you throw in the occasional frozen pizza?

The man is in heaven.

And it only took me two years to figure it out.

Two years of peeling and chopping and steaming and mixing and grinding and compiling and spending ridiculous amounts of money to buy raw, organic, unprocessed food.

Meanwhile, all he wanted was some white toast with butter.

Lucky for him, my tummy troubles are still not 100-percent gone. Which means I'm not 100-percent back to the kitchen yet.

At this rate, the man's probably got another week's worth of carbo-loading before I can work up the energy to put a stop to it.

Still, if I don't make it out of this alive, promise me one thing:

Someone, somewhere, will make my husband eat a vegetable once in a while.

If left to his own devices, I'm fairly certain he can't be trusted.

At least not around plain pasta, anyways.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

Tummy Troubles

I've been struggling with stomach issues all week. Food, swift movement, and all things nausea-related are my enemy.

I'm hoping to make it out of this alive.

Although, my bed-nurse looks worried:
It seems the outcome doesn't look good.

But, hey, at least my sense of melodrama isn't dead yet.

So, I'll be back soon. As soon as I can step away from the toilet and catch my breath between dry heaves.

"See" you (hopefully) soon!

***

P.S. Colleen, I know I totally owe you a Workout Wednesday post! I'm so sorry! It will be coming ASAP!

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Congested Doesn't Begin to Cover It

It all started Tuesday.

My neighbor, friend, and fellow Navy wife called.

Her sweet baby boy was sick.

So, no questions asked, I rushed down the street ASAP, vitamins and back-up in tow.

I held her sick angel baby while she took a shower and cooked dinner, before her husband got home, knowing very well she'd do the same thing for me.

Then, I went about my merry way, glad she, at least, was feeling better. I came home and cooked my own husband dinner, folded some laundry, and went to bed. It was nothing terribly odd or out of the ordinary. Just a typical Tuesday evening.

Which is why, quite normally, I got up the next day.

Went to work.

Trained my clients.

Came home.

Answered e-mails.

Vacuumed.

And then noticed that my throat felt a little bit scratchy.

Figuring it was just lethargy, I shook it off and proceeded to sort the barrel of paperwork sitting in my office.

Then I noted some pressure in my temples.

Writing it off as a stress-induced headache, I returned to the work at hand and started making dinner.

A little later, mid-way through our meal, my throat and headache worsened.

Still oh-so-sure that I was just tired, and blindly determined that I was not getting sick, I went to bed early, figuring I'd sleep it off.

Which is why I still got up at 4:30 Thursday morning and went to work like I always do.

Though my throat and head felt worse. A lot worse.

But, still, I was optimistic.

Sure, I might be run-down. But I was not. getting. sick.

No way.

Not me.

I don't get sick, I thought, and that sweet baby hadn't even drooled on me. I couldn't have caught anything from just holding a sick baby.

Still, I dragged through my class and clients, grateful beyond belief that I work almost no hours on Thursday.

I returned home and decided to take a nap, figuring since I was so run-down - but definitely NOT SICK! - I needed some rest.

Three hours later, I woke up, panicked.

And in pain.

Holding my congested head and hacking away into my cupped hands, I ran about my house cleaning. I was expecting some friends for our normal, Thursday afternoon crafting event, and I'd completely over-napped.

Too bad if I felt too bad. After all, I wasn't sick. I could handle some company.

So handle I did. But unlike almost every other chance I have to socialize, I was grateful when the day ended, and it was over. I just wanted to lay down.

So, after everyone left, I did. I lay on the floor of the living room and finally took stock of my body.

And, after two hours of fitful dozing and arguing with myself - along with coughing, sneezing, and snotting my way through a jumbo-sized box of tissues - I finally realized it.

I was sick.

Who'd a thunk it?

I managed to crawl into my kitchen, retrieve my cell phone, call in sick to work, and crawl back to bed.

And then I slept till mid-morning Friday, breaking a fever and propped up on pillows so I could breathe. It wasn't terribly pretty.

Luckily, I managed to rest the entire day Friday - and, in fact, I actually began to feel a little better - because that very evening, good friends of ours from Florida arrived to spend Labor Day weekend with us.

And by Saturday, the entire gang was playing the board game Settlers of Catan until 4 a.m.

I've never been so happy that my immune system is so surprisingly buoyant. If it can't bounce back for board games, it's not even worth going on, I say.

Still, I probably need to realize that - resilient though it may be - it's not made of steel. Even baby germs can render me helpless when they hit strong enough.

But not before I experience a fair bit of denial, apparently.

Good thing I learn my lessons.

Which is precisely why I went back to work this morning, hacking cough and all.

What? I told you. I'M NOT SICK!

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone! Hope you all had a wonderful Labor Day weekend with family and friends! Sorry for my absence this past Friday - this sneak-attack bout of the flu really caught me off-guard - but we should be back to our regularly scheduled program around here now that I'm feeling better! Thanks for all of you who checked in on me! You all are the best!

Workout Wednesday: Caring for Your Gym Gear

There are several bodily fluids that come along with exercise and the pursuit of a physically fit lifestyle.

The number one secretion? Sweat.

But salty sweat isn't the only culprit.

Exercise will often leave you and the stuff around you slicked with a layer of bodily fluids the likes of which most people have never seen.

There's mucus; there's spit; there's blood; there's even - gasp! -fecal matter.

Trust me, you don't want to know what they find when they take a Q-tip swap to those commonly used handles on your gym's elliptical machine.

Suffice it to say, it ain't pretty.

And I wouldn't eat off 'em, if you know what I mean.

So, what to do?

Because while you can't protect yourself from being exposed to every germ floating around your gym, you can keep your own person and your own gym belongings as sweat-and-snot free as possible.

So here's what to do when cleaning your...

...Gym Clothes.

Your sports bras; your running tights; your T-shirts. After a workout, they are filled with tons of sweat and various other germs that you get from wiping your face on your sleeve or brushing your body up against other gym gear.

And because most exercise-wear is super-absorbent and designed to pull sweat away from your skin, they're going to retain a lot of water, even if they're made from quick-drying fabric (which allows the material to pull the sweat away from your skin and then dry up, while the sweat is still in the material.)

So, to get your gear clean, wash the pieces - in a load all by themselves - in cold water. Also, if you are anti-clothesline, and insist on using a dryer for your exercise clothing, make sure you set it to "delicates," or another low-heat setting.

This helps preserve the fabrics, while making sure the fabrics aren't exposed to excessive heat, which can help breed bacteria out of all that collected sweat.

And if they still smell like sweat and body odor after you wash them, throw them away. These clothes do have a lifespan, and when you can't wash the sweat out of the fabric, you know its expired. Using them past this point will just keep breeding bacteria in your workout clothes.

...Your Sneakers

These are probably the germiest piece of workout gear you own. After all, you walk everywhere in them. (Even on that gross gym locker room floor.)

That being said, they are also the safest, simply because most of us don't pick up our sneakers after a good, long workout and gnaw on them. Or, alternately, caress them against our cheek.

So, in reality, there's really no need to throw your tennis shoes in the washing machine. And whatever you do, NEVER put them in the dryer. Both machines will tear and breakdown the support and infrastructure of your sneaker.

So, if they get dirty or wet, simply wipe them down with a damp rag, stuff newspaper into their openings, and leave them to air dry outside.

Damp shoes, assisted along by sweaty feet and possible foot fungus, can grow mold, so if you're an outdoor runner, you may have to air dry your sneakers more frequently.

...Your Gym Towels

Gym towels breed bacteria like nobody's business. They're damp; they're covered in sweat (and whatever else you picked up when you used one to wipe down that machine,) and they're stubbornly absorbent, always holding onto liquid when they can.

Piles of damp gym towels, in fact, have often been linked to staph-infection outbreaks.

Still, a lot of that can't be avoided. But what you can do is properly care for your own gym towels.

First off, keep them separate and away from all other dirty laundry. They will encourage germ growth in other fabrics as well.

Second, make sure you never leave one in a gym bag or a closed car. That non-circulating, humid air is the perfect environment for those towels to grow bacteria and fester.

Third, when you get home from the gym, rinse the towels in cold water and allow them to air dry, especially if you don't plan on washing them immediately. That way, you can rid the towels of as much bacteria as you can before you leave them unattended.

Finally, wash a separate load of gym towels in cold water and allow them to dry on a low-heat/delicate setting. Again, make sure you're not combining these towels with your regular bath towels, kitchen towels, etc.

And don't wait too long to wash your gym towels. They're damp; they're filled with bacteria, and even a small basket of them will allow germs to live and multiply in your home.

...Your Yoga and Stretching Mats

Hopefully, if you attend classes that include yoga, stretching, or abdominal exercises, you own your own yoga mat.

Because the communally used ones are not washed often enough. Very often, you're using a mat that's been used hundreds of other times without nary a wipe-down.

And while they aren't like towels, which readily absorb and harbor sweat and germs, they're still crawling with some pretty gross stuff.

So, first rule of thumb is: Spring for the 15 bucks and buy yourself a mat at Target.

Now, what to do once you've got your mat? How do you clean away your own gunk from it?

Simple: Check and see if it's washing machine safe. Most are. And you can simply put it in the washer, with a diluted soap mixture, on the gentle cycle. Allow it to air dry after.

If you're unsure, though, you can also wipe down the mat with diluted laundry detergent, then again with clean, cool water.

Go ahead and squeeze out all extra water before hanging it in a dry, well-ventilated place so it can air-dry.

***

I know that a lot of these tips seem like common sense, but you can never be too careful in a world where gyms are open 24-7, and there's always tons of people traipsing in and out at all hours of the day, with germs falling from them galore.

So here's to happy, healthy, germ-free workouts! (And thank you, Happy Dash, for being the inspiration to write this post.)

I'll see you next week for more Workout Wednesdays! I'll be doing another Q&A post next week, so feel free to post questions below.

Happy Exercising!

Why me? Why now?

It started out like it always starts out.

The pressure in my temples. (Yep, the good old headache.)

The draining in my sinuses. (Yep, the good old congestion.)

And - wait for it, wait for it - yep, there's the good old requisite scratchy throat.

People, I'm sick.

I'm lethargic and achy and mildy cranky.

I'm also at work. Because come May, I'm going to be needing some weekends off to go see my husband. And come June, I'm moving. And come April, I'm going to be so burnt out, I'm definitely going to need a few "personal days." (To pack my house and fantasize about washing my husband's pants again.)

In other words, I have no sick days to spare.

And yes, I, too, find it funny that the very place that got me sick - the school I work at, which is crawling with about 6,789,302 different germs at any given moment - is where I've chosen to spend my time today. But the humor in the situation will probably die about 15 minutes after the bell rings, and I have some student tell me they didn't do their homework because they were too busy checking their father out of rehab. (Although, to be fair, I'd wager that the stress caused by my husband's leave for boot camp probably didn't help my immune system, either.)

So say a little prayer that no children die in the presence of this lethargic, achy, and mildly cranky teacher.

And here's to a weekend that will find me alone on the couch, watching movies and drinking Emergen-C.

Be back on Monday a little healthier and a little happier.

Cross my heart, and hope (not) to die.

Happy Friday!

Me, my office, and a nice stash of drugs

So, I hobbled back to work Monday, still a little sore and weak from the Death-Like Flu I'd contracted last Wednesday.

Some of my students expressed concern and sympathy.

And all of them lamented the fact that I was not moving the due-date of their current project because, after all, "You weren't here to remind us that it was due, and how were we supposed to know to look at the white board for the reminder?"

Because, yes, I'm a horrible teacher, and I didn't put flashing, warning lights around the big, bold note on the board that reads, "IMPORTANT: Your Projects Are Due Wednesday! No Late Work Accepted!"

But still, it was pretty much business as usual.

Until I tripped.

I tripped, holding a stack of graded assignments that went flying everywhere.

All over my students. All over the class desks. All over everything.

Unfortunately, this isn't all that Earth-shaking for me. I laughed and started to pick them all up, along with the assistance of one of my more - shall we say - "connected" students.

Trying to make small talk, as the rest of the class was working on a deadline, I laughed and said, "Well, I guess I need to be more careful. I think these drugs I'm taking for my cold are going to my head."

The student looked up, shocked. Worried, even. A quick glance at his expression made me quite sure I was heading toward a rather unpleasant conversation:

Student: Mrs. C, you better be careful saying that. People are going to think you're on drugs. Then the principal will come and search your locker.
Me: Oh my! Well, I doubt that! Plus, teachers don't have lockers.
Student: Well, Mrs. C, if you don't have a locker, then where do you stash your drugs?
NOTE: This would have been the time to come clean and realize that I was talking to an irrational teenager who probably doesn't get sarcasm. Except, of course, I didn't do that.
Me: Oh, that's why they give us offices, my dear. It's a place to store all our drugs.
Student: You stash drugs in your office? Can I stash mine there, too?

Oh yeah.

He went there.

And me? I didn't know what to say.

Frankly, I'd brought this one on myself.

I managed to ramble out something along the lines of, "Honey, I'm totally kidding. I don't do drugs. You shouldn't either. And you really shouldn't be bringing them to school."

The kid just stared at me and laughed, awkwardly.

I laughed back, awkwardly.

We pretended it never happened, awkwardly.

I thanked the Lord above I wasn't being observed by the principal that day and continued to gather up the papers I'd dropped.

I'm sure it doesn't bode well in the school system's eyes when a teacher flies over the line of indecency and blatantly breaks Idiot-Proof Teacher Rule #1: Under no circumstances should you acknowledge that illegal substances exist, let alone partake in them, pretend to partake in them, or joke around in a manner that lends one to believe you may or may not be partaking in them.

Because seriously, what kind of yahoo jokes around about stashing narcotics in her office?

This girl, apparently.

This girl does.

What can I say? I blame the drugs.

***

Happy Tuesday everybody!

I want my mommy!

I'm sick.

Like really, really sick.

Like I came home yesterday before the school day even started because the school nurse took one look at me and told me to get the heck out of dodge.

I started blacking out around 10:30 a.m.

My whole body - and my head! oh, my head! - started roaring in pain at around 10:45 a.m.

My husband found me crying and crawling on the floor toward him at about 11:30 a.m.

The man then was forced to bathe me; he was forced to dress me; he was forced to hold my hair back while I upchucked all the Airborne, Theraflu, and Emergenc-C I'd taken that day.

Although, to be fair, he totally deserved it, as he was the one who got me sick. He came home from his trip with this nasty disease and insisted on kissing me and sharing a bed with me. The nerve!

I'm not graceful and elegant when sick, people. I'm just not. And I haven't been this sick in a long time.

I spent most of the afternoon crying and holding my head. I kept apologizing to my husband, who wasn't feeling all that great yet himself.

And I kept trying to call my mother.

Because darn it all, I didn't feel good; I didn't know what to do, and I wanted my mommy! (Luckily, I never worked up the strength to get to my phone, as I'd probably just have unnecessarily panicked the woman.)

So, needless to say, I'm home sick for the day again. The pain has subsided; my vision has returned. And I've actually sat up long enough to write this post! Huzzah!

But now, with that small victory in mind, I'm going back to bed. Because I cannot miss another day of work.

And honestly, it still hurts to hold my head up.

Can somebody call my mommy for me?

***

Happy Thursday!

Workout Wednesday: Running through the pain (and the coughing, and the sneezing...)

I've had about 10 different people inquire over the last month about one thing we can all relate to:

Exercising when you're sick.

And since I (and others I know) have been feeling off-again, on-again yucky for the last couple of weeks, I think it's high-time I addressed the issue of hitting the gym when you're not feeling so hot.

The holidays are right around the corner; temperatures are dropping; people are stressed out, and their bodies are getting worn down.

So the question is, should they exercise through the sniffling and sneezing?

It's very common for exercise aficionados and trainers, like me, to tell you to push through the pain.

But the problem is, sometimes this isn't always in your best interest - especially when you're sick.

From a public health perspective, it's a pretty big no-no. Short of hospitals and schools, gyms are the next place you're most likely to catch some kind of fungus, infection or common cold. There's just too many body fluids, heat, and heavy breathing going on to stop it.

So, if you're at all concerned about those people in the cycling class next to you, or the older gentleman walking on the treadmill in front of yours, stay home.

From a societal perspective, it's the kind thing to do.

That being said, what about from a personal perspective? Is it OK to take a quick run around the neighborhood if you're under the weather?

That depends.

First off, are you running a fever?

If yes, then say "No!", to that run that is. There's no need to drive your body temperature up any higher. You'll be doing more harm than good. (This seems like a no-brainer, but trust me, you have no idea how many people tell me they were "rocking a 101-degree temperature" before coming in for weight-training. Not. Good.)

However, if your body temperature is still hovering around the average 98.6 degrees, take a second look.

Are you achy? Are you very congested? Do you have a pounding headache? Are you nauseous?

In most cases, you still want to avoid the gym. Your body is already under stress, and exercise is going to put it into further stress. When you're healthy, this is a good thing; it allows your body to get stronger, to improve. But if you're not feeling well, you're only diverting the attention away from your body's healing and repair process by making it focus on the simulated fight-or-flight syndrome that is exercise. You could , in fact, be slowing down your total wellness.

But sometimes, there are a few exceptions.

For instance, if you're just feeling a little slow, a little lethargic, and little - well, icky - consider going to the gym.

You might feel like you may be getting sick, but if you're unsure - and you're not running a fever - give it a try. Do 45 minutes of cardio, or do an hour of strength-training.

Exercising builds endorphins, or feel-good body chemicals. After the exercise, you'll feel a release of stress; you'll feel more upbeat. You'll even have more energy - the perfect boost to drive yourself through the rest of that holiday shopping.

Some research shows (although results are not entirely conclusive yet) that exercise can even be a preventative method for the common cold or flu. It can, in essence, bolster your body and energy levels so that you can fight off encroaching germs and illnesses better.

Pretty neat, huh?

So here's to a happy, healthy, holiday season!

I salute any and all attempts to use exercise as a stress fighter; I promise it will work better than any venti-peppermint-whipped-mocha-double-shot holiday treat.

However, if the snow is falling and the flu is calling, stay indoors. It's better for you - and your gym buddies - in the long run!

Until next week, Happy Exercising! Have a wonderful Wednesday everyone!

***

Quick Note: Have you all seen this amazing giveaway at Fantabulously Frugal?

Seriously. Go. Now. It will blow your mind!

I know I don't normally do this, but this one is just too good. I've almost given up Christmas shopping entirely, in hopes that I will win it and can then lavish everyone I love (and myself:) with the goods.

So go enter. (Perhaps mention I sent you, if it's not too much trouble? Thank you, sweet friends!)

Be back tomorrow with some regularly scheduled blather!

Uh-oh. I'm at it again.

I'm back up on that never-ending soap-box I never truly take both my feet off of.

But this time, I'm over at my dear friend Brittany's blog, Notes From the Grove.

I'm guest-posting on being married to a newly enlisted member of the U.S. Navy.

And thank goodness, because I am currently staring at a mound of papers bigger than my Great Dane, which should have been graded yesterday.

Oh, and I'm also running a slight fever.

Lovely.

It's Cranky Town around these parts today.

So skedaddle on over to Notes From the Grove if you'd like to read a little bit more from this new military wife.

As for me and my newly acquired, unexplainable "How the West Was Won" vernacular - seriously, Brittany, "skedaddle" and "these parts?" Who do you think you are now? John Wayne? - we'll be here.

Grading papers.

Missing you all.

Taking shots of Theraflu.

Y'all come back now, ya here?

***

I'll be back to posting, sans the corny cowboys-and-Indians phrases, tomorrow. Hope everyone has a great Thursday!

Not Me! Monday: The "Apparently I Really Was Getting Sick" Edition

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. Head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have NOT been doing this week.

***

Apparently I was NOT really getting sick when I wrote what has to be my crankiest post ever. However, I did NOT underestimate how sick I was actually getting. Instead of a cold or a teensy bout of the flu, I did NOT get a horrible stomach virus of some kind. The porcelain throne, the wonderful cool tile bathroom floor, and I did NOT grow very, very close this weekend.

***

My stomach virus did NOT hit me in the middle of Thursday night, and it was NOT a rather violent bout of, well, you know what happens with a stomach virus.

And, despite the noises and tears I was NOT openly shedding at 3 a.m. in my sickness-induced pain, my husband did NOT sleep through it all, including my calls for help, from the bathroom, which is NOT conveniently located right next door to our bedroom.

My husband does NOT have a poor bedside manner; he just doesn't have one at all. He is NOT simply unaware there's life on Earth between the hours of midnight and 6:30 a.m. (Remind me all to tell you about the one time he did NOT sleep through a small fire my friend Blair and I started in our kitchen, when my darling husband did NOT snooze soundly through a bleeting alarm, an out-of-control fire extinguisher, and two hysterical females screaming for help.)

***

But back to Thursday night...

Even amid all the vomiting, I did NOT start to get furious with him, not because he wasn't helping me, but because now it has become very clear who will NOT always have to get up to take care of a crying baby in the middle of the night.

***

At 4:30 a.m., I did NOT have to call for a dreaded substitute for my students on Friday, which did NOT require me to write and e-mail back-up lesson plans to the school principal, from my bathroom floor. I was NOT incredibly grateful I had a laptop in that moment. I was also NOT thrilled that the lip of our bathtub made a lovely make-shift desk.

***

I did NOT finally fall asleep at 6 a.m. and wake up at 9 a.m. to find the hubs had NOT gone to work already.

He did NOT call me 45 minutes later and ask me how my day was going.

I did NOT think this was to check on me, because, you know, I'd NOT been sick all night. Most husbands would NOT call to check on their sick wives, right?

Plus, he normally does NOT call me during the day, as I'm a teacher, who can't just pick up her cell phone at a moment's notice.

***

Flashforward to 7 p.m. that night, when the hubs does NOT call me when he's on his way home from work.

The following disturbing conversation did NOT then occur:

Hubs: How was your day?
Me: Well, not wonderful.
Hubs: Really? Why?
Me: Why do you think why? I've been throwing up for 12 hours.
Hubs: What? Really? When?
Me: What do you mean when? All last night. This morning. All day!
Hubs: What?? I had no idea!
Me: What do you mean what? You talked to me at 10 a.m. Didn't you wonder why I wasn't at school?
Hubs: Well, yeah, but I don't know. I just thought you weren't.
Me: You really don't remember me throwing up all night and calling for you and finally crawling back into bed and telling you I'd been vomiting and felt horrible?
Hubs: Um, no, not at all. Seriously, I don't remember any of that.
Me: Really? REALLY? WERE YOU DEAD?!?!?!?! No, wait, that was me. I was the one who felt like I was dying. Good thing I wasn't though. Because it wasn't LIKE YOU WOULD HAVE BOTHERED TO WAKE UP AND HELP ME!
Hubs: Oh dear, oh, this is not good, huh? Let me just say, baby, I'm so, so, so, so, so sorry! Can I make it up to you? What do you want for dinner?
Me: Dinner is not the way to make anything up to a vomiting woman.
Hubs: Boy, I'm just knee-deep into it today, aren't I?

Yes, hubs, you are.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

The wasteland between sick and tired

We're at the point in the school year where I'm not sure if I'm sick or just dog tired.

I can't tell if my headache is brought on by my moody, yelling students or by an encroaching fever.

I can't tell if I'm coughing from an oncoming cold or from all the vocal strain I've endured getting my students settled down and teaching at the gym.

I can't tell if my body aches because of the flu or from hauling stacks of books and papers back and forth from my classroom to my car.

I can't tell whether I'm writing you all this whiny post because I genuinely don't feel good or because I'm just stressed out beyond belief.

In college, my roommate/best friend and I coined this stage "The October Curse."

Every October, we all seem to walk a fine line between stressed out and crazy.

While everyone's workloads seem to have doubled, everyone's desire to crawl back into bed and never get up seems to have tripled.

It's hard to tell whether we're sick or just sick and tired.

The honeymoon is over at school; parents have started their complaining, while their kids have started acting out and hating me for keeping them in line.

I am behind on grading, housework, shopping, gift-buying, and wedding preparations (remember Autumn? Yeah, she's getting married in 30 days!)

Something is wrong with my cell phone, and the space bar on my computer doesn't work unless you tap it with the force of a thousand strong men. (Which means, as I type this post, I'm banging violently on the keyboard, sending my technology-lovin' husband into spasms of anxiety. And I'm so cranky that I'm kind of enjoying it. Like I said: Sick. and. tired.)

Every time somebody asks me to do something, anything, I feel like I'm about to fly off the handle. I almost hit a former co-worker/writer when he asked me to proof-read his book for him.

And people, I like to proofread. A whole lot.

And to top it all off, I find myself feeling run-down and a little under the weather. Achy all over, if you will.

I don't know if it's the lack of sleep, or an oncoming bout of seasonal flu, but I seriously debate, every morning as I lie in bed, if I should call in sick.

It's the old, "I don't feel great. Am I sick? Maybe it's just a cold? Should I stay home today? But, oh my, then my students would get so behind. And I don't have any emergency substitute plans ready. And what if I am getting sick, and it really hits me tomorrow, when I'll really need to stay home? But then I won't be able to because I stupidly stayed home today, which, let's face it, may or may not be necessary, as I might, just a little bit, actually want to stay home and not go to work today, which probably means I'm just convincing myself I'm coming down with a rather vengeful case of the swine flu, when in reality, all I need is a little bit more coffee."

Yeah, that's my disturbing stream-of-consciousness at 5:30 a.m. Wacky. Crazy. And surprisingly grammatically awkward for a girl who loves to proofread.

So, with that, I'm signing off for the weekend.

Obviously, I'm not very much fun to be around right now. (I did try to salvage some cheer for this post, but I couldn't. I'm a horrible liar.)

I'm planning to hole myself up in my house with lots of snacks and cups of coffee for the next 2.5 days.

Because I've got a book to proofread.

And I can already tell that my malfunctioning space bar is going to make the editing process just whiz by.

I think I'm calling in sick today.

***

I apologize for my crankiness. I hope you all have a genuinely good weekend, and I promise to return Monday without my bad attitude, holding a nice, non-ranting post for you all!

Happy Friday everyone!

We're under attack!

It's barely been a week and a half.

A week and a half!

And I'm under siege.

My immune system, that is.

I'm sick. I've got The Crud. The Ick. The Stuff.

You know what they say: When you work in a school, The Sickness is gonna getcha.

Initially, because I'm the quintessential anti-hypochondriac, I did what I do best; I ignored it.

Sure, me, The Girl Who Does Not Nap, took a doozy of a snooze on Saturday afternoon. Sure, my throat has been a little scratchy, but barely, and it could be mistaken for the strain that happens when you go back to a schedule of talking/teaching/yelling at kids for eight hours straight. And sure, my eyes have been itchy, but I'm pretty sure that's just the super-deadly mold that seems to inhabit most Florida schools (OK, I'm kidding here! Kind of.)

I was all, "Nope. Not me. I'm fine! I'm great! Why am I shivering in 100+ degree heat? No, I don't have cold chills! What's that you say? Swine flu? No way! I have a very strong immune system. I laugh in the face of flu shots, in fact."

Ha.

Yeah, right. I take it all back. This girl is not having the last laugh.

And by 4 p.m. yesterday, when I finally slowed down enough to sit down at my office desk and grade my kids' first written assignments, I wasn't even giggling. (And though I considered it, trust me, it wasn't their papers.)

I was sweating then shivering, wiping my sneezing/running/rapid-fluid-producing nose, clearing my burning throat, batting my red, itchy eyes, rolling out my aching neck, and fighting the urge to lay my ridiculously heavy head on any available surface. (This laptop is looking mighty nice right about now.)

I began cursing the one day last week when I didn't take Vitamin C. Heck, I began cursing the day I became a teacher, because those summer-tanned, healthy, giggling, texting, fast-metabolism-ed teenagers I worked with had gotten me sick. Sick as a dog.

It's not just me, either. My bloggy friend Gina got sick during her first weeks working back at school. I was e-mailing back and forth with another teacher bloggy friend Katie on Sunday night, and she had the flu already, as well.

We are under attack, people!

Apparently, all it takes is a room full of dust and children to send normally healthy, thriving adults into immuno-suppressed, coughing-phlegm freaks.

Frankly, it's kind of sick.

The upside? Teachers really can't work when they're sick because a) they're likely to start an epidemic with their now-mutant germs, and b) have you ever tried dealing with 30+ hyper-active teenagers in a tiny room when you can hear your own pulse in your head? Not for the faint of the heart.

And luckily for me at least, today is my planning today.

So the children are torturing some other poor soul, infecting them, no doubt, with their special brand of The Back-to-School Crud.

This gives me approximately 20 more hours to heal up, rest, and get ready for Round Two: Brittany v. High School Germs.

But for now, Head meet Laptop.
__
Make sure to come on back tomorrow. Workout Wednesday is hosting a giveaway! Happy Tuesday everyone!

SAD about summer

I have a friend who used to live in New Hampshire.

She used to hit the tanning bed regularly during the long winter months.

No, she wasn't looking for a heaping bowl of skin cancer (and yes, we're still praying she doesn't get one.)

She was simply dealing with what she called the "winter blues."

She told tales of being constantly "down" during the gray, cold months; of wanting to bury herself in bed and never get up; of never being able to get warm, no matter how many coats she had on.

The tanning bed helped her cope, she said. The warmth and the light were welcome respite, apparently.

Upon further reflection and a move to Florida, she maintains she was a SAD sufferer, or someone who had seasonal affective disorder, where people become depressed and lethargic because of prolonged cold, gray winter months and a lack of sunlight.

Now, I've lived my whole life in the great Sunshine State. So you'd think I couldn't relate.

And at first, I couldn't. I mean, I've never had to shovel snow, stoke a furnace, or wear thermal socks. Seriously.

The only seriously cold experience I ever had was when my brothers, father and I went camping, and in a freak coincidence, it plummeted to 18 degrees at night (an almost unheard of low for Florida in February.) Instead of being miserably frozen, though, we took great joy in pouring milk and orange juice on the pop-up table in the morning and watching it promptly freeze, forming perfect discs of death, if they were then chucked at each other at the just the right angle and velocity.

Cold and gray are definite Florida anomalies.

No one gets SAD down here.

At least not in the traditional sense.

But I've got a theory, people. A theory that I'm fairly certain would be of great interest to the American Psychological Association when they write DSM-V.

Despite what's considered the conventional form of the disease, I believe SAD has many manifestations, and one particularly virulent form I think the APA is overlooking is the summer affective disorder.

Summer affective disorder, you ask? What's that? How can summer - the season of pools and bright colors and refreshing beverages - affect you, at least negatively?

It can if you live in a state like Florida, where the humidity makes it feel as if the heat of the sun is pressing down on your whole body, slowly pressure cooking you into the equivalent of one hot mess.

The symptoms?

Well, they start out relatively small.

You begin to express apathy about things that normally concerned you.

For instance, the power bill: While you normally strive to turn off lights and unplug unnecessary appliances, you now waste resources with wanton abandon. You don't care that your power bill doubled. Nope. You don't care one bit. It was the only way you were able to cool down from the outside world, in fact. You're cranking that AC down even lower as we speak. It doesn't matter that it will cost you another $100 a month. You're hot. It's a coping mechanism.

And then there's professionalism: You begin to ponder how you can spiff up your sundresses and flip-flops, so that when you attend meetings during the summer months, you don't have to dawn closed-toe shoes and pants. And really, it no longer bothers you that your summer look isn't the height of business casual. At least your don't have sweat stains blooming in the armpits of a your button-down shirt.

Then, as SAD grows, you begin to lash out at those close to you.

Perhaps, let's say, you wake up at night, and the lowered AC isn't cutting it anymore. Your much-larger-than-you significant other (who from this point on will be known as The Living and Breathing Furnace) has draped a huge, hot, sweaty limb over your body, and you can't take it. You begin to beat him, furiously trying to remove his Hot Limb of Oppression, muttering phrases like, "You're smothering me! Get it off of me! Stop it! Why are you doing this to me? I'm a good person! I don't deserve to die like this!" You finally get out of bed in frustration and retreat to the kitchen, where you lay on the tile floor next to the dog and fall back asleep in it's comparatively welcome coolness.

Pretty soon, the situation grows worse. You can no longer disguise your SAD symptoms, and you begin to ignore normal social mores.

For instance, you start putting together outfits that don't require a bra. You can no longer stand the feeling of two sweaty cups of foam pressing against your chest and subsequently filling with your bodily liquids the second you leave the house. Nay, sometimes, if you're having a really SAD day, you debate not wearing underwear. After all, they become soaked through just by driving to the grocery store in your car, which you stupidly bought with BLACK interior because it was the best deal. Stupid stupid stupid.

You also stop wearing make-up, simply because no matter how non-comedogenic, oil-free, and long-lasting it is, it will sweat off, clog your pores, and make you look like a relatively hormonal, acne-prone, 13-year-old boy with raccoon eyes. Instead, you face the world bare-faced, pale and looking faint, mopping sweat from your brow at every turn.

Then, you start avoiding the outside world entirely.

Out of milk?

Doesn't matter. Eat juice on your cereal, honey. I'm not braving the heat for milk.

Don't have any toilet paper?

Where's the last roll of paper towels we've been saving?

Friends want to have you over for a BBQ, Bible study, friendly get-together?

Only if they're okay with you going naked and arriving at 11 p.m. at night, when the heat has finally died down to a bearable 100 degrees.

Now, when the situation can't be avoided, and you have to brave the outside world between the hours of 7 a.m. and 11 p.m., SAD sufferers will often display some distinctly odd habits; habits that, if ignored too long, will effectively ostracize them from normal society.

For instance, you may bob and weave across parking lots, sidewalks, and pathways, walking in wide, weaving patterns to stay in shaded areas and avoid sunny spots, where you feel as if the direct light hitting you may just melt you to your humidity-dysfunctional core.

You might accidentally leave your cell phone in the car, and then decide that it's better to miss 14 calls than go get it right that second, because then you'd have to be outside for more than 1 minute, battling the infernal heat as you bob and weave your way through your front yard and driveway.

You begin to serve and eat everything cold. Yes, even soup. And no, not even gazpacho.

You've been spotted putting crushed ice down the back of your shirt in Wal-Mart, even if the ice is stained with the last dregs of your Super Gulp Diet Coke, which you must be holding in your hand at all times in case the humidity and heat lulls you to sleep, leaving you to fry like an egg on the sidewalk.

You even consider paper training your giant Great-Dane-lab-mix dog, simply because he's got a black coat, and you take pity on the poor guy, who must attract so much heat when he goes out in the sunny backyard to use the bathroom.

The list goes on and on. As the humidity holds out, the situation inevitably gets worse, and most SAD sufferers have lost their wits (and most liquids) by mid-September in the state of Florida. You're a dehydrated, depressed, socially ostracized mess, who is living for the first time your state sees temperatures below 85 degrees, which you're praying happen in record-breaking time, i.e., before October.

Unfortunately, there is very little to be done for these SAD sufferers. Temporary solutions are just that, temporary. There is no real fix, other than moving to the Artic.

Many suffer in silence (or on their blogs...not me, of course. No. Not me. I'd never be this crazy. But many do. I'm just saying.)

Others hide their symptoms well, although even they can be found muttering the age-old phrase, "I swear. I think this summer is worst than last. I mean, I don't think it's just me getting old. It's hotter! I blame global warming! All those stupid holes in the ozone layer!"

Help us, APA. Help us, er, I mean, them. Help them so they don't suffer alone. Tell them that they are not crazy but are just extremely humidity-prone. And tell them it's OK.

Because until that happens, SAD sufferers everywhere will never truly be free.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go stand in front of my open freezer for a good 10 minutes. The computer is wafting too much heat at me, and I definitely need some relief.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Not Me! Monday

*I did NOT wake up before 7 a.m. on Sunday morning for no apparent reason. Then, it did NOT take me more than two hours that morning to figure out that I woke up because I was NOT running a low-grade fever (which did NOT explain the early-morning sweating issue I'd had. Lovely, I know.) We have NOT entered the last week of the school year, and I am NOT sick as a dog. Or, rather I'm NOT as sick as a pig, because I had least three teachers recoil when I said I was a litle under the weather this morning, and then ask me, in all seriousness, "You don't think you have swine flu, do you?" Ugh.

*I did NOT make an emergency trip to CVS Pharmacy this morning to stock up on Airborne, Theraflu and zinc lozenges, only to have the cashier look at my loot and mutter "Sweeettt," like I was about to start tripping on all the vitamins and cold meds I was buying so I could make it through a day in my classroom. I did NOT then give him a scathing look, to which he responded, and I am NOT completely serious, "What? You know, some places don't drug test out there." Um, EXCUSE ME? Were the teacher keys jangling around my neck not a dead give-away that going to work high isn't exactly a possibility?

* The hubs and I did NOT do five loads of laundry yesterday. Five. My domestic skills have NOT been severly lacking over the last few weeks. However, I did NOT redeem myself by making the easiest, simplest dinner ever last night, which my husband did NOT rave about it. Apparently, all those fancy casseroles and meals I've made were NOT a waste of time, because a simple turkey breast and corn on the cob was NOT all this man wanted. Sigh.

*I did NOT buy a maxi dress this weekend that I already own. I did NOT buy it in a different color but in the same size, because I love, love, love it that much. However, even though my new navy one is the exact same dress and size as my old purple one, the navy one is NOT hanging off me. Apparently, I've NOT lost weight, but I've also NOT shrunk, as this dress is NOT dragging a good two inches on the floor. I did NOT wear it to work today anyways.

* I did NOT have my cell phone on vibrate and stashed in my purse all weekend, and instead of actually checking it, I did NOT just assume that no one called me Friday, Saturday or Sunday, except for my mother, who I picked up for because her call was the one time I felt the phone vibrate because I was NOT holding my purse in my lap in the car Saturday. The rest of the time, the phone did NOT stay stashed in the purse, which was stashed by the door to the house. I did NOT finally fish it out of my purse at 10 p.m. Sunday night, only to realize I'd missed nine phone calls. Thanks to a hectic schedule, it will NOT take me forever to call everyone back. (I'm sorry everyone! I promise to call back tonight/tomorrow!)

* I was NOT teaching a relaxation/stretching class on Saturday morning, when a participant did NOT ask me to speak up. This is NOT the first time in my life when I've been asked to be louder instead of quieter. Which does NOT mean that I've spent so much of my life being loud that when I try to quiet down and use a relaxing, soothing voice, I simply don't know how to do it. I just do NOT become inaudible. Talk about extremes.

*I have NOT developed an unexplainable obsession with French bread pizza. I did NOT eat it twice this weekend. I am NOT planning on making it for dinner tonight as well.

* I am NOT doing a give-away tomorrow, so do NOT check back to enter!

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. Head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have NOT been doing this week, as well as how her sweet baby Stellan is holding up.