TS Eliot Was Right

Sometimes I joke about being cursed and having a guardian angel named Sully who is nothing but a mean spirited drunk with a penchant for causing misery. However, it is becoming quite clear that this is no mere exaggeration, it is fact. Case in point the last ten days, which have been sort of like hell, if hell involved children and vomit and whiskey and no sleep, so yeah, hell.

1. Maggie Becomes Ill, Monday, April 5, 2010. When receiving the call that Maggie “was throwing up,” I immediately left work and wondered if she was okay. Not worried at all because throwing up happens, and this kid is my second. First time mommy nerves are for wusses. But then she proceeded to projectile vomit every fifteen minutes for five hours. Oh that smell, holy god. It was pretty much scarring, in a years of therapy kind of way.

2. Maggie Is Better, Tuesday, April 6, 2010. Woah! That was a quick hitter wasn’t it? Maggie is back in the game. Had to be something she ate. Why did John even stay home? Stupid, stupid.

3. Maggie is Not Okay; Owen Joins the Fun, April 7, 2010. We drop Maggie off at daycare with instructions of a bland diet and Gatorade, saying “we think it was just something she ate.” Then after my run I receive a call “Owen threw up. Twice.” Awesome. I call John to get Owen and settle back to work. Another call, this time “Maggie, threw up everywhere. AGAIN.” Really? Really Satan? Nothing like two vomiting kids to brighten your day. The McCall House of Vomit is officially in business.

4. Owen and Maggie on the Mend; Cassie Vomits At Work, April 8, 2010. The kids are better, Owen totally fine. My stomach however is in an uneasy state of queasy. Nausea flowing at a steady clip so much so that twenty minutes after my run there is a rush to the ladies room. After which it is certain that everyone now thinks my weight loss had nothing to do with diet and exercise and everything to do with my now blossoming bulimia.

5. Maggie Throws Up On Me, AGAIN; April 9, 2010. Feeling better in all respects and thankful that the misery is behind us, Maggie awakes. I take her into the living room and sit her down wherein she projectile vomits all over me. Completely enveloped by that smell, I slither into the fetal position shaking. We finally go to the doctor where we are told that it is just a bug going around taking from two days to two weeks to remedy.

6. The McCalls Are Feeling Better; April 10, 2010. Everyone is on the mend. Things are going well aside from the fact that the kids think that 5:00/5:30 a.m. is an appropriate time to wake up. We have Saturday fun inclusive of park visits, swim lesson procurements and a Park Chalet visit. Tingly while walking home from my two Chalet beers, I ask John to “buy some Jameson.” After all, the week was tough.

7. I Did What? Owen’s Finger; April 11, 2010. When your husband turns to you in the morning and says “You don’t remember, do you?” Just tell him at that point “No, I don’t. And shut up.” Don’t ask “What do you mean?” Because then you will here this tale about how he woke up to you sitting on the side of the bed pinching him all over mumbling incoherent words. You will then go to the kitchen discovering an empty glass next to equally empty bottle of Jameson. So in addition to sleep walking, sleep talking, and sleep pinching, you also engage in sleep drinking. A rare breed indeed, and by rare breed, I mean completely nuts. Suddenly, that searing headache of yours has an answer, and its answer is - YOU ARE A SLEEP DRINKER (Trademark Pending). One who gets up in the middle of the night, and goes to the kitchen, gets a glass, pours a decent size whiskey drink, gulps same to wander into the bedroom to torment your husband with pinching fingers and words of the wacky.

Later in the morning, say 6:30 a.m. since your kids He-Devil and She-Devil wake up at 5:15, you notice that your son’s right hand middle fingertip is swollen and puss filled. (As a side note, although you can say “pus-sy” as in something that is filled with pus, you can never write that. NEVER.) You make a call, have a clinic appointment where they tell you it is “pus-sy” and needs antibiotics. Because Walgreens decides to have lunch that exact time, you kill an hour by getting your son shoes, a hot chocolate and a visit to the bookstore. It is there, Owen says “Mama, you can go now. I live in the bookstore.” So you do, have fun with the words weirdo.

8. 4:45 Is No Time To Wake Up; April 12, 2010 - But 3:30 a.m. is Worst; April 13, 2010. When I was in my 20s and slept until noon on a beautiful day and spent the rest of it in bed in front of a TV, the thought of doing something other than watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island would prop up. Now, no sir re, happy for every single second wasted. That type of rest will not be attainaible again until they lock me up in the ole Senior Center for Sleep Drinkers. You know why people who are old just all of a sudden doze off, because they had kids.

And there it is, my last few days. So to echo T.S. Eliot - April is the cruelest month. Especially since I no longer live in Boston which means no Monday holiday off, no morning Red Sox and no beer while cheering marathoners. April you suck. And the best part being: it is only half over.

As an aside: special thanks to John who had to work while taking care of Maggie, whose favorite activity these days is falling to the ground in a fit of frustration crying her banshee wail while kicking her feet every ten minutes or so (that and eat strawberries by the bushel). He is the best. Kinda. You know when you are drunk, from sleep drinking.