Sunday, January 24, 2010

Two and a half great miracles happened here (and no, I'm not talking about the double ear infection)

Yesterday, while Mama lounged around in her silk pajamas, nibbling on bon bons, I took 3B to the doctor to have them confirm what we already knew was pink eye and prescribe him drops for it.

When 3B got up--at 5 a.m. for, like, the 237th day in a row--it looked like he'd rubbed it too much. About five minutes later, it was swollen. About five minutes after that, I wiped some gunk out of it. While I was putting down the tissue from that, I watched more green pus shoot out of the corner of his eye.

Happy weekend, everyone. Wash your hands.

By the time Mama got up and the doctor's office was open, 3B looked like he'd done 12 rounds of rope-a-dope with Mike Tyson--except his ears were intact. The waiting room looked about like you'd expect on a Saturday during cold and flu season. I did my best to keep 3B from rubbing his eye directly on anything, and we got out of there with the prescription we came for. The doctor said that his ears were full of fluid, but not infected, so if he complained of pain in them to call right away.

I should have known something was up when, while we were waiting at CVS, 3B only wanted one of the chocolate gold coins I bought to bribe him with. Then, as we were walking out, he said, "This is good."

"What's good, buddy?"

"We're going home."

There's a first time for everything, I thought. Little did I know what that truly meant until this morning.

3B was again up at 5, and not looking too hot. He made it through the morning OK, although giving him his second round of eye drops took about three years off of my life. And Mama's. We finally convinced him to use the Aunt CaliforniaGirl method, putting the drop in the corner of his closed eyes, letting them roll in as he opens his eyes. That was much better than the previous night's dose, during which 3B's caterwauling was loud enough that a police helicopter circled overhead for the duration.

Then began the miracles: first, I went to put Jewel down for her nap...or rather to enforce her nap, since Mama had put her down about five minutes earlier. After about 10 minutes of soothing her, I decided to lie down with her in bed...which, of course, means that I took a nap too, for about an hour and a half. When we got up, the house was eerily quiet. I figured that Mama and 3B were playing down on the street and was ready to go down and meet them, but there was Mama sitting at the dining room table, working on her computer.

"Where's 3B?"

"He has a double ear infection. He said his ears hurt, turned pasty white, then said he wanted to go lay down and take a nap."

"I'm sorry, whose son said he wanted to take a nap?"

See, there is a first time for everything. Unfortunately.

3B slept for about two hours, then woke up and acted for the rest of the day as if he'd never had either pink eye or his ear infections. While I was glad that he rebounded so fast, I have to admit that I was secretly hoping that he'd want to take another nap later in the day, so that perhaps I could catch another one. Yeah, fat chance, Papa.

And he was acting like that even before his first dose of antibiotics, which went much more smoothly than the eye drops. Much. First, the antibiotics are pink...and here's my suggestion to big pharma: make it possible for pharmacists to dye kids' prescriptions any color so that kids can get their drugs in their favorite color.

And big pharma, you don't have to thank me, let's just split the profits from this 60/40. Forty percent will be enough for you, right?

So, as 3B is sucking back his first dose of antibiotics, he pulls away, looks at Mama and solemnly intones, "I love antibiotics."

Don't we all, dude. Don't we all. Hell, pink antibiotics might qualify as another half a miracle.

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  1. I think that is Aunt Kangamommy's method, but I am glad it works. I have the child look up, I pull the lower lid down and drop in the gap between the lower lashes and the eyeball.

    I am glad someone had a nap.

  2. That was really a great miracles happened to you and to your mother.

  3. Dude, don't give Big Pharma any ideas. Or at least patent it first!

    My patented method of eyedrop administration is a bit more brutal, involves slightly more restraint and probably more caterwauling (bonus points for using caterwauling, by the way) than yours, but you know to each their own.