Blog, how I've missed ye

As a parent, I expect to face challenges and the little stresses daily life brings as I rear my three boys. But the past month has been hard. I mean hard, hard. It started normally enough about four weeks ago. Ben got strep. That, unfortunately, is not a rare occasion in this household. A couple days off of school, and Ben was much better. No big deal. A few days later, Paul fell ill. I knew bringing him in to have a throat culture would be no picnic. Paul absolutely hates having his throat swabbed. "Don't worry, I'll be quick," the technician said. Paul was having none of it. Tears, kicking and screaming, a steadfast refusal to open his mouth. I laid him down on the examining table and tried to pry his mouth open. As the tech tried to work the tongue depressor in, Paul bit down on it, hard. "Come on, I don't want me to have to plug your nose," the getting-a-little-frustrated tech said. (Yeah, that sounds like a great idea. Traumatize him for life!) Finally, the tech managed get the swab past his protestations. The test came back faintly positive. That sounded about right, I thought. Probably not the best sample ever taken ...


Still, doctor's office shenanigans aside, not a terrible experience overall. Until Gus got sick. He had been nursing cold symptoms for almost three weeks - lots of snot, but nothing serious. Then in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, Mark noticed he was a little feverish. I thought ear infection, and off Mark and Gus went to the weekend clinic. No ear infection, the doctor said, but Gus definitely had something. She just wasn't sure what. The possibilities, she thought, were strep, a bladder infection/UTI or pneumonia without a cough. She said she could run a blood test but recommended that we take a wait-and-see approach. Because Paul had had a UTI when he was a baby and Gus wasn't doing well, I wanted to do the blood test. Off we went to the hospital. The doctor said the blood work indicated that his infection was bacterial rather than viral and recommended we take Gus to the ER. We made our second sojourn to the hospital for what was sure to be an unpleasant experience. To make a long story short, the doctor, an arrogant fellow, was certain that Gus's problems were respiratory. I knew he probably was right, but it would have been nice if he had at least listened to our concerns. We took Gus for a chest x-ray. I'm sure the experience was terrifying for him. The x-ray showed "an arguable small spot of pneumonia." The doctor sent us off with a prescription for amoxicillin and me with an uncertain feeling. When you hear that your infant's blood work is not normal, you want to be sure that you have found the source of the problem. I was not at all confident.

The next day, things had gotten worse. Gus was spiking 104 and 105 fevers and was completely miserable. We brought him back to the doctor. His oxygen levels were lower than she was comfortable with, so she sent us to Children's Hospital. There, he received IV antibiotics, another chest x-ray and a new prescription. The pediatrician at Children's informed us that my friend the ER doctor's recommended dose was too low by half if Gus did indeed have pneumonia. If anything, the next few days were worse. On top of Gus's illness, he had thrush and a yeast infection, ahem, down below. I'm sure he was feeling assaulted from every angle. He'd had it with medicine (antibiotics, fever reducers, disgusting goo for the thrush) and rectal temperature takings. He was spitting his amoxicillin back in our faces and screaming at every diaper change. Of course, antibiotics cause diarrhea and make you more prone to yeast infections, so he was pooping like a newborn, and his yeast problem was only getting worse. This resulted in the worst diaper rash I've ever seen. And I've seen some bad ones. My house was a war zone decorated with detritus of illness. All around were clothes soiled with baby poo and amoxicillin from medication-delivery battles.

Finally, things began to improve. We were coming to the end of Gus's antibiotic regimen, and he was taking his meds much better. I had finally breathed a sigh of relief. Then the day before Easter, Ben felt sick. He was running a fever. Shortly thereafter, Paul spiked his own fever. I had so been looking forward to a fun Easter, but it looked increasingly like Ben and Paul would be sick. Indeed, that was the case. Monday, we brought them to the doctor. Ben: a double ear infection. Paul: strep. Again.

Today is Paul's last day of antibiotics. Pray with me that my refrigerator will be free of the dreaded pink stuff for a long, long time. And maybe I'll be able to get back to doing my beloved blogging more than once a month!

Hair's the thing

I spent an inordinate amount of time yesterday looking for the hair of a Lego guy - actually a Lego gal. Willie, aka the Screaming Girl, is Paul's latest favorite toy. I'm not really sure if her name is really Willie or if that's something Paul conjured. She is a Lego figure with two faces - one happy and one screaming in fright. Willie, part of an Indiana Jones Lego set, sports a platinum-blond hairdo that you can rotate to reveal the face of your choosing. The problem: her hair is prone to popping off or being removed and then lost. Further complicating matters is the fact that Paul likes to bring her everywhere he goes. In his few short days of owning her, we have already had many close calls of losing the hair forever.

That brings me to yesterday. Paulie had brought Willie on a walk with us. I brought Paul in the house and had seen Willie's hair on the kitchen floor. I made a mental note to pick it up. I told Paul not to leave his sunglasses on the floor. I put said sunglasses in his room. I ran out to retrieve Gus. Paul told me Willie's hair was missing. These are the facts of the case.

I must have retraced my steps three or four times. It was driving me crazy. I had just seen the hair. I literally crawled around on the kitchen floor looking for it. There it is! I thought once. But alas, it was only a nugget of Kix. I retraced my steps. Had I had a mommy moment and somehow dropped it in the refrigerator when I went to get the one daily Diet Coke I allow myself to get through the long afternoon? I wouldn't put it past myself. No, not there. Not in either bathroom. Not in the wagon or on the driveway. I checked all these places, though I was sure I had seen it on the kitchen floor. I pictured myself breaking the news to Paul in a sober tone, detective-style: "I'm sorry, son. However, statistics show that the longer the hair's been missing, the less likely you are to find it."

Then a break in the case, or so I thought: I found on the living room floor Willie's tiny tiara. Surely the tiara must be close to the hair! No, Paul said he had removed the tiara. I had all but given up hope. Would the Lego company send me a replacement set of hair? I didn't think so. Dejectedly, I went to change Gus's diaper. That's when I saw it. Willie's 'do was sitting next to Paul's sunglasses. It was a mommy moment after all.

Happiness is restored in my household once again. Until the next time we lose the hair. Yes, it's a strange, strange world I inhabit.

A peek into Ben's world

I've often wished I could be a fly on a wall in Ben's classroom, able to observe what he's like in his little corner of the world. Yesterday morning Mark and I got that chance. Ben's kindergarten class hosted a parents' day. With parents and grandparents lined up in chairs on the perimeter of the room, it wasn't an authentic fly-on-the-wall experience. Nevertheless, Mark and I had a great time watching Ben in his element.

The purpose of the day was to show the parents the literacy program the class follows. It's called the Daily 5, and it works to facilitate independent reading through activities like read to self, read to others, guided reading, and writing work. The class started with the daily news. Ben was selected to be the author. The author for the day writes a sentence - anything that interests him or her. Mark and I watched with delight as Ben began. "I like to play Wii with my dad," he wrote. "Oh, no," Mark whispered. "Now everyone's going to think that's all I do with him." No worries, Dad. Among our many mistakes, we must be doing something right, because Ben's sentence looked perfect - all the words spelled right and clearly, and good "finger spacing" to boot!

I often fret about Ben's little tics. He chews on the neck and sleeves of his shirt, he often can't sit still, and we remind him, "Hands!" about 20 times a day when we catch him with his hands someplace they shouldn't be. A veteran elementary school teacher, my mom has assured me all of this is normal. I was relieved to learn yesterday that she was right. Five- and 6-year-olds have startlingly similar mannerisms. They all danced around and seemed to have a hard time keeping their hands to themselves. It's an unusual experience having to sit silently and leaving the discipline to someone else. "Ben, stop bothering that boy!" I found myself wanting to say.

Too soon, it was time to go. Before leaving, the parents and kids enjoyed some refreshments. I giggled as I watched the kids pile their plates high with five or six treat selections, and I relished this little time I was able to spend with my son who is both ordinary and extraordinary. I am a lucky mama indeed.

Indy, the Screaming Girl and Baby Jock

Paulie is really into the kind of play that I think is just great for kids - role-playing, imaginative play. He moves quickly from one obsession to the next, but it's always the same kind of deal. He loves to create dialogue and adventures for whoever is the guy du jour. Lately he's been really into Batman, Spider-Man, Legos, Indiana Jones and Star Wars. Ben got Lego Indiana Jones for the Wii, and Paul loves to watch him play. Paulie tries to recruit Ben into his kind of play: "Ben, you can be Indy and I'll be the Screaming Go-el!" The Screaming Girl, or "go-el" as Paul pronounces it, is a character in Lego Indiana Jones who screams whenever you press a certain button. Ben has never been much into Paul's type of play. He's always been a more structured kind of guy: games, sports, video games. I'm hoping that when Gus gets bigger he will become a playmate in Paul's adventures. Paul's working on getting him on his side already. He's taken to calling Gus "Baby Jock." Jock is another Indiana Jones character.

As a girl, my best friend and I used to play Barbies for probably eight hours a day, so I'm delighted to watch Paul play in his pretend universe. I don't care if he's calling himself the Screaming Go-el, or even Princess Leia ("Are you sure about that?" Mark asked him. "Yup!" said Paul.), as he's been doing lately, as long as he keeps using that imagination.

The terrible threes

I know everyone refers to the terrible twos, but for my kids I never thought 2 was that bad of an age. Now 3, that's a hard age. Take Paul - for a few hours, please. Bah-dum-bump. Seriously, this kid challenges me daily. Ben was a tough 3, too, but Paulie frays my nerves in a different way. Last week he came out of the bathroom and said, "Mommy, I like cough drops." I should have known to move them to higher ground after he had curiously watched me pop a lozenge into my mouth the week before. How many had he eaten? Just one, thank God. Now, Ben wouldn't have done that. He would have whined and badgered me to let him try one, but I don't think he would have just taken one. Of course this goes along with Paul's personality, and I should have known better. After all, he is the child who delights in being naughty, who learned to climb practically before he walked and who painted our basement walls.

Before I tried my hand at raising 3-year-olds, I didn't think it would be that bad. They're a little older, can talk fairly well and therefore I can reason with them, I thought. I neglected to factor in the boundary-pushing and defiant streak. When Paul was younger, I began strapping him into his booster seat for timeouts so he wouldn't be able to get up. When he turned 3, I decided he needed to learn to sit on his own without getting up. Guess what? He won't do it. We had a showdown Sunday night in which he refused to sit. Therefore, a favorite toy had to take timeout in addition to him finishing his own timeout. I shouldn't be surprised that the next day I caught him pushing a chair to the refrigerator in a valiant attempt to free Batman.

Thank goodness my sweet little boy still emerges fairly often too. Just nine and a half months until the terrible threes are over.

And the worrying award goes to ... me!

I learned in the wee hours of Saturday morning that 4 a.m. is not my best decision-making time. Paulie had been diagnosed with an ear infection Monday of that week. The doctor put him on antibiotics, but rather than getting better, he got worse. He developed a deep, barking chest cough and by Friday night he had spiked a fever for the first time that week. Before bed, Mark called the on-call service and talked to a doctor. He recommended we make an appointment at the Saturday clinic and if Paul's breathing became labored we needed bring him to the ER. (By the way, the Saturday clinic is a favorite weekend destination for the Thiel family!)

Paul slept fitfully that night. By 4 a.m. he was thrashing about uncomfortably in our bed. He was running a fever, having coughing fits and acting a bit delirious. Now, I know that kids run higher fevers than adults. Nevertheless, it's always unnerving to me. Even when I'm at my level best, my mind can conjure some truly fantastical worst-case scenarios. But at 4 a.m. after being awakened for the usual Gus feedings and then to take care of Paul, my mind was churning out some doozies. What if he has some kind of serious infection? I thought. I kept coming back to this book I had read a review of about a mom whose daughter is healthy one day and dies of a strep infection the next.

Mark, of course, was up too. Thankfully, he's more level-headed than me. Yet we were struggling to make a decision about taking Paul to the ER. He didn't seem to be having trouble breathing, but he was in sorry shape overall. His appointment at the clinic was just four hours away. But that four hours seemed like an eternity. I fretted and watch the minutes tick by until 4:45. "Take him," I told Mark. "Wait, maybe not." Blessedly, sleep overtook me at 5 a.m. and the decision was made for me.

Mark took Paulie to the clinic at 8:15. The doctor thought he detected a small spot of pneumonia on Paul's chest x-ray, so he upped his antibiotics. Waiting had turned out to be the right decision. I'd like to think I learned something from this, but I'll probably react the same way next time. I didn't win the worrying award for nothing. By the way, Paul's cough remains, but he is getting better.

It's a date

I went on a date yesterday afternoon, though it wasn't with my husband. Mark didn't seem to mind, though. My date was a cute 6-year-old who talked my ear off about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. That's right, Ben was my date. Mark and I had been meaning to set aside alone time with the older boys for quite a while now, and we finally got around to it.

While I took Ben out to lunch at Atlanta Bread Company and then to a movie, Paulie and Mark went to lunch and then to Monkey Joe's. The one-on-one time was great. Since Gus's arrival, the time I have been able to spend bonding with Ben has dwindled. He's the oldest, and we expect a lot of him (maybe too much?). So while Mark or I still snuggle with Paul and Gus at bedtime, Ben doesn't get as much of that as he might like. Ordinarily it's difficult to give 100 percent of my attention to Ben at any given time, so it was nice to have a couple hours in which I could just listen to what he had to say.

After lunch, we headed to the theater to take in "Hotel for Dogs." If Mark were my date, I probably would have chosen a chick flick, but I decided to let Ben choose. I recommend the movie for you and your 6-year-old date. Ben and I sat in of those seats made for two, and I even snuck in a little snuggle time during the scarier parts.

Next up is my date with Paulie. I can only imagine where he'll take me.