Where's the Manual for This?

Yesterday was my day off from work. I emphasize, "from work," as I don't want the phrase "day off" in itself to give you images of me swinging in a hammock sipping Mai Tais and eating cheese. Most Tuesdays these days I have Oliver with me at home, for play dates, zoo trips, and the chance to catch more moments of him growing up.

Of course, not all days with Oliver are filled with smiles, bubbles, and teddy bears. He's 16 months old, remember. So yeah, let's talk about yesterday.

Oliver woke up after another 17-hour night of sleep. He had peed through his diaper and pajamas. If you slept that long, wouldn't you? So I got a bath ready, stripped off his feet pjs, and had him standing at the tub when I whipped off his diaper. Plunk went Ollie into the water, just as I noticed his diaper out of the corner of my eye. The poopy diaper. I looked down at Oliver, sitting in a tub of suds and poo.

Well, where's the instruction book on this one? I thought to myself.

After draining the tub, giving Oliver a modified sponge bath with a new washcloth, I wrapped my crying kid in a towel. He leaned into me and turned his face into my arm. And there he stayed, lying still in my arms. A little too still. I started to cry, knowing that something was really wrong. Oliver had fevers, been extremely sleepy and clingy for several days. I had made a doctor's appointment for the afternoon, and though it was less than two hours away, I couldn't help but worry for the worst. Just about any serious disease I have ever come across as a nurse has started out with obscure symptoms of "fever and lethargy." Cancer. Brain infections. And while I know I see the worst of the worst in my job, sometimes it's hard to concentrate on the realistic, especially when I'm holding my kid who just doesn't feel like moving around much. There's no manual for how to be a mother, a nurse, and be in your right mind.

My dad, who had planned to spend the afternoon on a playdate with his grandson, picked us up for the appointment. As I strapped Oliver in, we were once again reminded of the urgency to turn Oliver's carseat around in Grandpa's car. That's what the manual recommends. It's what Oliver would recommend, too.

Michael is also experienced in the healthcare field, so was also fearing something bad when he heard Oliver had slept again for 17 hours. He joined us at the clinic, where Ollie got poked and prodded.

We got good news. Yes, Oliver is sick, but with something called "Roseola," also known as "sixth disease." Which is weird, because for Oliver, it's more like his twelfth. Anyway, the virus presents with everything Oliver had: high fever, irritability, being really tired, and a rash. The rash, which just appeared that morning, signaled that the virus had almost run its course.

"I'd say he should be back to normal in a day or two," the doctor told us.

She did not, however, give us any timeline for when we would be returning to normal. We're still tired, disheveled parents, and I'm afraid that's not going away anytime soon.

Grandpa took us out for lunch at Culvers after the appointment, where Oliver learned about forks. Over and over, he stabbed at french fry bits, then took them off of the prongs and put them in his mouth.

Perhaps he could benefit from a manual.