Fighting strep throat, ninjas and dust bunnies

My little guy spent the beginning of last week at home with strep throat. He'd only been in school for two weeks before the bug hit. Ugh!

So after staying home for part of Monday toting him to the doctor, I thought I could easily work from home while he continued on his road to recovery Tuesday. It should have been easy. Because sick kids just stay in bed all day, right?

Sure.

Little Dude and I congregated in the office/"fun room" Tuesday morning. He had toys. I had files. He played on the iPad. I typed on the computer. I was in the middle of some paperwork when I noticed a flurry of movement from the corner of my eye. I turned to see Little Dude jumping up and down, doing karate chops and kicks. He quickly moved from one corner of the room to the other and back again. It was like watching the Tasmanian Devil do a Karate Kid impression after drinking a Red Bull.

Which spurred me to use one of the most commonly repeated mom questions: "What are you doing?"

"I'm fighting ninjas."

"Ninjas?"

"Yeah. But you can't see them only I can."

"Because they're ninjas?"

"Yeah."

Apparently I have failed in my mothering by never teaching my child how to "act sick." Didn't he know he should sit in bed all day whining that he was too sick to do anything? Didn't he know that if he whined enough about being sick that I would eventually cave in and let him watch cartoons or movies all day long? Didn't he know the rewards to be reaped for brilliantly exploited the slightest fever? Sheesh!

I'm not sure he truly appreciated what he had. Other kids have to go through the effort of faking a fever and cough.

If it wasn't for the fever, you would never have known this child was ever sick. He was a little worn down on Sunday afternoon when he first had a fever. But by Monday he acted like nothing was wrong. If it wasn't for the fever, the doctor wasn't sure she would have ordered a strep test. By Tuesday, he was a rambunctious ball of energy once again!

So I decided to put that energy to use.

"Since you have so much energy, why don't you dust?" I figured this would slow him down. Who really ever wants to dust even when they're well? I figured he'd plop down on the couch and finally start complaining that he doesn't feel well.

But no, not this ninja-fighting superhero. He was up for the challenge. It's on his list of chores anyway. And since he was sick, he negotiated the steep price of $.25 per floor.

So he grabbed his fluffy dusting wand and set off to fight dust bunnies.

Yes, there's an actual game called "Attack of the Dust
Bunnies." I need to find this for Little Dude!

Just as I was on a conference call (which is always the best time, isn't it?) Little Dude finished his battle against the nefarious dust bunnies of doom and came running into the room to tell me he had a completed his mission.

I can happily report that my house is now ninja and dust bunny free.

Oh, and strep throat free too. I just wish I have that much energy the next time I'm sick!!!

Whatever Makes the Medicine Go Down

Kids and medication often go together as well as cats and Tabasco sauce. Just when you think you can get it down their pipes, the taste kicks in and the revolt starts.*

But when the home remedies aren't working and you find yourself turning to medical science for a cure, or at least a way to ease some nasty symptoms, you do what you can to make sure your little ones swallow their jagged little pills... or nasty bubble gum flavored syrup.

Side note: I have often asked our pharmacist why every kids' antibiotic syrup seems to be bubble gum flavored? He has no idea and thinks it is a little strange, especially when pharmacies are capable of adding any flavoring these days. My kid has never had bubble gum and finds the flavor totally disgusting, so we have to double up on grape flavor to mask it. Yuck!

And back to my regular blogging...

Last week, I had to keep Little Dude home from school. And my motto is, "If he's sick enough to stay home, he's sick enough to go to the doctor." Good thing! Because he had strep throat, and possibly another bug on top of it.

Lovely.

So the doctor prescribed an antibiotic and a steroid. Plus, she recommended Benadryl (she described the back of his throat as "a river of snot"). And due to the massive fever, chills and sweating, we was already taking Tylenol.

Yes... if you can add, you've already figured out that he was taking FOUR medications.

Again... lovely.

So as I was lining up Little Dude's afternoon snack medication, he stalled with his usual tactics... questions.

What does this one do? It helps bring your fever down. It dries up all the snot in your head. It fights the infection and germs that are making you sick. It fights the swelling that's making you wheeze and cough.

Do I have to take it again? Only until your fever comes down a little. Yes, you have to take it again tonight. You don't have to take it again until tomorrow.

Am I done taking it forever? Nope. Just until you get better. I don't have to take it anymore? Yay!!! Sorry, Little Dude. You have to take these two again tomorrow and these two again in 6 hours.

Bummer.

But being the resilient and resourceful creature that he is, Little Dude came up with his own way to make his medication exciting...

He named them after superheroes!

After hearing what each medication is for, he appointed them monikers after a few of his favorite superheroes. He renamed his antibiotic "Iron Man" (the red coloring fit), his steroid "Thor," his Benadryl "Hulk" (which he later renamed "Pirates101") and his Tylenol "Captain America."

The names didn't make the medicine taste any better. But at least he seemed comforted in the knowledge that the medication was working like a superhero team fighting off nasty germs and symptoms, and that he wouldn't be taking them forever.

On the plus side, he is looking forward to learning how to swallow pills so next time he gets sick, he doesn't have to worry about bubble gum flavored medicine anymore!



*Disclaimer: I have never tried feeding a cat Tabasco sauce and would not recommend it. I'm pretty sure there would be some blood loss and dismemberment involved if someone ever did try it!

My 4-year-old the Dentist

One of the things I really enjoy about my son's daycare/preschool is that they often bring in what I call "guest teachers" at least once a month. There's the library lady who reads new and exciting books, the music man who teaches them new fun songs, and the dental hygienist who makes sure they're brushing and flossing right.
Yes... flossing.

So my boy came home from school the other day with his dental "prize package." It was the same kind of bag he gets from the dentist twice a year. You know what I'm talking about... the one containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, a sticker, and that little sample of floss that just never seems to make it very far.

Usually, the floss samples get tossed into the travel items where they can be properly ignored until needed for some travel emergency like reattaching a button, hanging a wet swimsuit to dry, or tying a package together. It's not that I don't floss, but I'll admit that I don't floss every day.

But my precious boy with the beautiful, white smile was determined to use his floss.

That night, while getting ready for bed he informed me that he had to floss. And then with all the confidence of a well-trained and experienced dental hygienist, he proceeded to lecture me on the right way to floss.

"Mommy, you have to floss every day. But only once a day. You should floss at night."

"Oh, thank you for letting me know."

"And Mommy, you have to floss before you brush your teeth at night."

"Before?"

"Yes, before. You have to put the floss between your teeth and hug the teeth and then pull it."

Then he demonstrated the correct flossing technique that he had already become an expert at.

(By the way... he made sure I got a good picture of it. So he actually flossed several times until he was satisfied that I had taken a good picture!)

After flossing and brushing his teeth, I tucked him into bed. And then went into my bathroom and flossed!

Who says parent's always have to set the example? Sometimes it's the other way around!

Anatomy of Insomnia

It has been 40 hours since I last slept.

And I'm not tired.

I'm not really worried about it though. I'll eventually sleep at some point.

The dance with insomnia is a routine I know by heart. I've been doing this two-step since childhood. I remember being in 3rd grade and freaking out because the minutes on the clock next to my bed were ticking by while I lay there completely unable to will my body and mind to sleep. With every soft tick announcing another 60 seconds had passed, my mind would launch into a quick calculation of how many hours and minutes I had left before the alarm would go off. Every moment brought a sense of doom. What if I never fall asleep? What if I fall asleep in class? What if I fall a test because I'm too tired from not getting a full night's sleep?

And, of course, the more I worried about it, the harder it was to fall asleep.

In the early years, my insomnia was often cured by calling out for my dad. I found comfort in listening to his soothing voice pray aloud for his daughter to find rest. The lilting cadence of his words were my lullaby.

As I got older, the insomnia aged with me. Instead of worrying about school, my mind would lie awake at night making lists of things I had failed to do that day or ruminating over something that had happened earlier that day. For a while i had a wonderfully monotonous recording of the Bible on tape. I'd just pop in Matthew 1 ("and someone begat someone who begat someone who begat someone else..."), and before all the begats were over, I was usually asleep. I also had learned some mental exercises to help my body and mind relax. Those sometimes helped too.

But the insomnia never left me.

I never liked the idea of taking pills to fight off the sleepless nights, partly be because I never know when it will strike. There are no warning signs. I go to bed. I'm tired. I'm sure I'll fall asleep right away. Then before I know it, it's 1am and too late to take something that's not going to leave me groggy the next day, which is worse than pushing through without sleep.

I start off the night tired and ready to sleep, but just as the setting sun dips below my mental horizon, it starts rising again. By 3 or 4am, I'm wide awake and ready to start the day.

So i learned to live with it. Accept it.

When I had roommates, I used those nights to write. When I lived alone, I'd clean. Now, with a husband and child, i find other things to do. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I pray. Sometimes I just sit in the dark listening to the peaceful sounds of my slumbering neighborhood.

But I stopped letting insomnia rattle me. I stopped letting it have control.

If you can't beat them, join them... Right?

So what if I miss a night's sleep every now and then? Most likely, I'll get a good night's sleep the following night.

And if I don't? Well, then maybe I'll spend that time writing!

White Girl Can't Zumba!

So I tried something new last night... Zumba!

Several of my friends have been telling me how much fun it is and what a great workout they get from it. Although one friend did tell me that a lot depends on the instructor. (Cue dramatic music.... Dun dun duuunnn!)

I went after work, staked out a spot in the back corner by the fan, and quickly chatted up a few other people before class started. One lady said she had taken the class a couple times already and just when she catches on to one move it would change. But she said it was a lot of fun.

Before I knew it, the music started and everyone started moving together like some sort of flash mob. Apparently, the other 70 people in the class had been here before. I, on the other hand, was like a fish out of water. Literally. I flopped around like a dying fish for the first half hour while most of the other people were able to keep up with our instructor who seemed to think she was auditioning for "So You Think You Can Dance."

I have no other Zumba class to compare, but I'm pretty sure most instructors at least shout some sort of direction at some point. The only words I heard this teacher say was at the beginning: "Forget the workout. It's a dance party in here!"

I should have left when I heard the words "dance party."

I was completely lost for the first half of the class. It was some sort of crazy dance fusion that involved the running man (yes, seriously), the electric slide, the macarena, hip hop, and something that looked like an angry hula dance... all set to techno salsa and Indian music. It was rumba in Bollywood.

This has to be one of Dante's circles of hell.

Did I mention that there were at least 70 other people? Yeah, we were packed in tight. Every time the instructor would lead us in a move that required moving more than two feet, the class looked like a sea of bodies being tossed from one side of the room to the other. I could almost hear the sound of crashing waves above the steady pulse of the bass. A few people needed to be thrown a life raft... me included!

Finally, I was saved when some Beyonce came on. As I joined the others in reenacting her music videos, I looked around and realized there were several others who were also a little uncoordinated. It made me feel a little better and realize that they probably were too busy trying to follow the spastic changes to even notice my own floundering.

After shaking our rumps, we did a little Charleston and a little salsa (two things I can manage). I reached a small comfort level and looked deep inside for my inner Shakira. Realizing there was no disco ball trophy at stake, I let loose and had fun at the end.

Will I try Zumba again? Probably not this class. As my dear Hubby pointed out, I'm not exactly the most graceful person around. I'm much more comfortable taking kick boxing or step aerobics. Roundhouse kicks are a lot easier than shaking my hips. But I might try a different Zumba class.... Someday.

Yes, I'm Sensitive!

It's Spring. Flowers are blooming. The wind is blowing. And my nose is dripping. Ah, sniff, sniff, spring. If only I could smell your fragrant flowers.

Last night, the family took an hour long walk around the neighborhood. Yes, an hour. Actually, it was two half-hour walks. The first one involved Little Dude riding his bike while I took Furry Dude for a walk. The three of us venture out into the neighborhood a few times a week for a post-dinner stroll/run/skip/hop. And I love it because our neighborhood is actually very active in the evenings. We have neighbors who hang out on their front lawns chatting it up with whoever passes by, people walking their dogs, kids on bikes and a few sweaty joggers.

Of course, last night, the wind was blowing. And blowing. And blowing. I'll admit I didn't really want to go for a walk because I knew the wind would start the evil cycle of allergies. But my boy had some energy to burn, so I squirted Afrin up my nostrils, and sacrificed my ability to breath for my son's happiness. Oh, the things we mothers do for our kids.

By the time we got home, my nose was running like Niagara Falls. I grabbed a box of tissue and proceeded to build a crafty pile of snot rags shaped into the Statue of Liberty. Through my puffy, barely opened eyes, I saw my husband putting on his tennis shoes.

"What are you doing?"

Little Dude intervened. "I want Daddy to go on a walk with us."

"Just Daddy?"

"No, I want you too."

Nuts! So Big Dude, Little Dude, Furry Dude, and I headed out the door. When we returned, I could no longer breath through my nose, my eyes were practically swelled shut, my body hurt from sneezing a thousand times, and I'm pretty sure I had snot and drool all over the front of my shirt.

My wonderful, loving Hubby - who sneezes only a few times a year - thought he was being helpful when he said, "You should take something for that."

I almost pummeled him to death with the Zyrtec bottle I had just swallowed a pill from.

"God Made Poop!"

Most people never have the opportunity to combine theology with gastrointestinal issues. But nothing is off-limits in our family! So when I found myself telling my son last night that "God made poop," I realized our family had yet again wandered into exotic dialogue.

I haven’t seen an official poll, but I’m pretty sure that conversations about poop are not uncommon for households with little children. Of course, our household probably has an above-average amount of poo-related chats. Since he started eating solids at six months old, Little Dude has had an uncomfortably chronic digestive issue. So yes, we talk crap. And now that he’s almost four-years-old, the bathroom banter has become a little too common. There have even been a few times where I’ve had to stop the little guy – or even myself – from sharing too much information with people outside our family.

Another frequent discussion in our house is much more sacred. Little Dude loves going to church and prays to Jesus every night. He has a question about God almost every day. Where is God? Where does He live? Can I go visit Him in heaven?

It was inevitable that two of the most common conversations in our home would eventually collide and create a divine comedy!

It finally happened last night. Little Dude and I were having a lavatorial tête-à-tête on our way home from his cousin’s house. During the play date, my precious little boy thought he needed to use the potty. However, after an unsuccessful attempt, he informed us all, “I can only go poopy at home.”

Yes, this was going to be a problem.

So in the car, I was trying to reassure my son that it’s ok to use the potty at Auntie’s house or school or church or anywhere for Numero Dos. That led to a discussion about why he needs to go #2 (i.e. so his tummy doesn’t hurt, so he can have more room in his tummy for all the yummy food he likes, etc.). After a lengthy Why?inquisition from the back seat, I found myself falling on the crutch of “because that’s how God made you.” (“Because I said so” didn’t really fit here.)

“God made me poop?”

“Yes, hon, God made poop.”

So there you have it. Giant theological revelation: God made poop. I’m sure some it won’t make it into Max Lucado’s next book or even Rick Warren’s, but maybe it will at least help alleviate my son’s new concern over public pooping.

Anniversary of a Bone - Part 2

Today is the 1-year anniversary of my son's bone graft.

Yesterday I wrote about how quickly we found out that he had a unicameral bone cyst. Today, I continue...

So just two days after we found out that my little boy had a bone cyst, we were at the largest orthopedic office in the state. We were pretty lucky to get in so quickly. However, that appointment did not go well. Let's just say that it ended in plenty of tears and frustration. The x-rays were terrifying to see. The bone cyst was actually very large, causing the outer bone to bow out. It was also in an extremely precarious spot that had a lot of pressure on it. The doctor was surprised that my little guy hadn't broken his bone yet. The fact that our son was so young was also surprising. He also said that this usually happens in kids ages 5-14.

He said the cyst needed an operation, and that while he could do the operation, it would be better to have it done by someone who sees more bone cysts than he does. I asked who he would recommend if it was his child, and he gave one name... Dr. Shindell. Ironically, Dr. Shindell was at the top of the list the pediatrician gave me (I later found out he is one of the top pediatric orthopedic surgeons), but I foolishly went to the bigger practice first. Hmm...

I called Shindell's office that afternoon and we were able to make an appointment for Friday. Yep, another two days. In the meantime, the first orthopedic doc told us not to let our son run, hop, skip or jump. Seriously, how on earth did he expect us to keep a 2-1/2-year-old from moving too much?

Two extremely slow-moving days past and my hubby, son and I were sitting in the new doc's office. He had come into the office just for us - it was one of his surgery days. He was very calming and explained everything to us. He said the cyst wasn't something our kid was born with, instead it was most likely caused by an infection that got into his bone and caused a cavity (like in teeth). He laid out our options and told us we could take the weekend to think about it. We took about 5 minutes to decide. We would do the surgery.

The following Friday (it was actually Good Friday!), our son was wheeled into surgery. It took 1-1/2 hours and was arthroscopic. They drilled a "pencil-sized hole" in his bone, scraped it clean, and filled it with a compound that mimics bone material. They also put a wire inside the length of his femur. The wire was a cutting edge procedure to help the bone compress and help prevent the cyst from reocurring. Unfortunately, the reocurrence rate for bone cysts is extremely high. But our doc knew of a new study that had just been completed with very positive results using the wire method.

Originally, we were told it would be outpatient, but since it was the weekend, our doc decided to keep our son overnight in case of any complications and for pain management. The nurses LOVED our little boy. They all said he was their best patient. Again, he never complained about pain. I could only tell by the grimace on his face. But the nurses worked to get his pain under control.

Waking up from surgery with your leg in a giant brace couldn't have been fun for him either. He had to wear the brace - a welcome substitute for a full body cast - for 6 weeks! Once he got the brace off, we still had to keep him from running, jumping, etc. for another 6 weeks. Yikes! Our entire family - grandmas, aunts, cousin, etc. - worked to keep our boy entertained. We really couldn't have done it without them.



Too small for a wheelchair -
so we fixed up his wagon!
He loved it!

The doctor said bone cysts typically reoccur after two or three years, and some kids need more than one bone graft, so our son will have periodic check ups. I've lost track of exactly how many x-rays he's had by now. However, once his bone completely fills in, it will be as if the whole ordeal never happened. It shouldn’t affect his growth, and it should be just as strong as any other bone.

Today is definitely worth celebrating! Within two weeks of taking my son to the pediatrician for a limp, he had surgery! How often does anyone get an appointment with not just one but two specialists in a matter of days? With HMO approval? And God must have had His hands around my son’s leg because everyone said that it was amazing he didn't brake it. Plus, our daycare provider had experience taking care of a kid in a full body cast, which meant less time off of work for us. And as icing on the cake, a girl I grew up with is a doctor at the children's hospital and happened to be working the day of the surgery.

This whole thing definitely wasn't easy. But it could have been far worse. And we are so grateful for all the miracles we experienced during this time. So yes, today is a holiday here at home!

Anniversary of a Bone - Part 1

Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of my son's bone graft.

Last year, when he was just 2-1/2 years old, we noticed him limping. At first he would just limp when he woke up in the morning or after a nap. But instead of getting better, he started limping more and more often. He never complained and it didn't slow down him down much despite how extremely active he is.

I couldn't stand watching him limp so on a Monday morning, I took him in to his pediatrician. She examined his leg, hip and knee. She had him walk and run back and forth from me to her down the hallway (in just his diaper so she could watch his gait). It was probably the most fun he ever had at the doctor's office!

Since he didn't complain about any pain, she said it could have been several things. She sent him for an x-ray in case it was a fracture and a blood test in case it was juvenile rheumatoid arthritis.

My boy was a model patient for his first set of x-rays. The techs even said he was a better patient than many adults! Next, we went down to the lab and had his blood drawn. He sat on my lap the entire time, crying and telling the nurse, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." The empathetic lab tech told him that he didn't do anything wrong and that she would be as quick as possible. After, he asked her what she was going to do with the vials. So she showed him all the machines they use for the blood samples. He was fascinated and wanted to stay to watch his blood samples go through the machines. The tech laughed and told him that it would take a long time because his blood had to coagulate - she showed him another sample of blood so he could see what she meant.

We didn't have to wait long to find out what was wrong with my son's leg. That afternoon, the doctor called to say the x-rays revealed a unicameral bone cyst on his upper femur. She said not to worry because it wasn't cancer, but was most likely a place where the bone didn't quite finish forming. They usually don't find a cyst until the kid breaks his leg. And this one was large enough to rub on something causing the limp.

She gave us a list of orthopedic surgeons and said the cyst could be easily repaired. In fact, most times, they don't do anything and simply allowed the bone to fill in on its own. But because he was so young and active, they might give him a steroid shot to get the bone to grow.

To us it was amazing how quickly we were able to get answers. It was a busy day. My little man loved all the attention he was getting. He charmed everyone and collected lollipops, stickers and stamps for being such a great patient. I was so proud of him for being so well-behaved!

Tomorrow I'll let you know how everything continued to move quickly, and how everything changed from a simple shot to a complicated surgery!