What Happens in the Crib, Stays in the Crib

Last night we met Nina, who is Ollie's GrandCousin (my Mom's cousin), and her mother Virginia (which would make her Oliver's Great GrandCousin or something weird like that), for dinner at the Mall of America. Tucci Bennuch looked kid-friendly and delicous, but it wasn't hunger-friendly as the wait was about an hour long. So we headed up a couple floors to the Napa Valley Grill, where Oliver had his first dinner on a white tablecloth.

I assume Michael wrote a decent tip.

Fast forward a few hours later...Oliver woke up screaming. We are continuing our cry-it-out method, and 5 out of 7 nights Ollie sleeps like, well, a baby. A baby who sleeps through the night. Last night was not one of them. Knowing that we won't start the cycle of going in to pick him up and subsequently being up most of the night with protests against the crib, my policy is to set my alarm for 40 minutes later; I turn off the monitor, and when my alarm goes off, I turn the monitor on again and check for silence. If he was still having a tough time, I'd go check on him and maybe rock him a bit. It was silent last night after each of the three alarms I needed to set. The kid just couldn't get a good night's rest.

Eventually, neither could I. Snored out by someone who shall remain nameless that shares the bed with me, I headed to the guest room, which is next to the nursery.

Cough, cough.

Crap.

Cough, cough.

I crept inside the nursery. The kid was so full of snot that he kept obstructing and waking himself up to cough. I leaned over the crib and gingerly patted the crib mattress. Just as I feared: vomit. The crib sheet, blankets, Ollie's PJ's and hair were no match for the white tablecloth from the night before.

And here is where I will quote reason 467 why the cry-it-out method is so torturous for parents: without going in the room, well, your kid can have a major vomit session, roll in it, sleep in it, swallow it, and choke on it- oh, and scream trying to tell you about it- all without you knowing. To Ollie, the poor child, he was crying to get me to help him out of his cage of puke, and I didn't come. Three times he tried to get some help, and three times, I didn't come.

When I finally stripped him down and held him, he had a fever, and couldn't breathe past all of the goobers. I tried and tried to suction his nose, but eventually he just had to puke again, and again, to get rid of all the secretions. If you were just eating something, sorry; you're probably not anymore. The point is, because I didn't check on him, he also inhaled all of that crap into his nose and mouth. I can't tell you just how horrible of a mother I felt like last night.

The next morning was not much better. Fevers and puking continued, and we cancelled our Day 'O Fun with friends and family. It was 5 pm before Oliver was able to stomach any Pedialyte, and shortly after that when I finally got to brush my teeth and change out of my pajamas. Yes, I said 5 pm. It's funny how when your kid is sick, you're also in grubby clothes with new stains, lying around miserable, and emitting a funky smell.

By 7pm, we had our kid back, and I was removing things left and right from his fingers and mouth. If he wakes up tonight, I'm not sure what I'll end up doing. Wait, yes I do: I'll wake Michael up and make him decide.