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It's Winter And My Kids Are Going To Be Sick Forever

January 16, 2019 | Jennifer Batchelor

My children have been taking turns getting sick since October. The pattern typically goes like this: first, my four-year-old daughter Ellie sneezes at breakfast. I eye her suspiciously and swap her milk for orange juice (vitamin C, do your thing, I pray). By the time I pick her up from preschool, she’s blowing her nose every 90 seconds.

I give her Benadryl at bedtime and precisely four hours later she’s up again, which happens to be right when I am crawling into bed myself. My husband Jon meets her in the hallway, and I hear him ask her what’s wrong. She doesn’t bother with Dad when she’s sick; she simply asks “where’s Mama?”

Jon brings Ellie into our room. Without a backward glance, she climbs into our bed, shoving me off my own pillow. Her eyes already closed, she waves her hand vaguely at Jon and commands, “go get my stuffies.”

Whether it’s at her confident direction or his own baffled bemusement, he leaves and returns momentarily bearing an armload of stuffed animals from her bed. She tucks them in close and burrows more firmly under the covers. My covers. Jon and I lock eyes, half-chuckling, and he shrugs. He’ll spend the night on the couch.

Two days later, Ellie’s viral-induced asthma is in full effect and she’s coughing like a 60-year-old who smokes two packs a day. The inhaler I administer twice daily is rendered useless; we need oral steroids. By now it’s Wednesday, which is our pediatrician’s day off, of course (such is the state of our perpetual sickness, that we know the pediatrician’s day off). I’ll need to take Ellie in; the on-call doctor won’t call in a prescription without seeing her.

I don’t have to give the receptionist our last name. She knows us by sight and clucks maternally over Ellie’s flushed cheeks and glassy eyes as she checks us in.

“Address and insurance still the same, I’m assuming?”

“Haven’t moved since last Thursday,” I affirm—trying, and failing, for humor. Twenty minutes in the germ-infested waiting room. Thirty minutes in the germ-infested examination room. Seven minutes with the actual doctor who nods at my rote description of Ellie’s symptoms, does a cursory check of her ears and throat, and listens with the stethoscope to her lungs with a frown.

We leave with our third prescription for oral steroids in two months.

Ellie misses Thursday and Friday of preschool. On Saturday, her eight-year-old brother, Nathan, sneezes at breakfast. Sighing, my shoulders slumping, I mechanically pour him a glass of orange juice. I set it down on the kitchen table and on my way to the linen closet for another box of tissues, I preemptively text the babysitter we had scheduled for that night.

“Sorry; we have to cancel. The kids are sick.”

Stop me when this sounds familiar.

***

My intimate knowledge of the germiness of kids began my son’s first week at daycare—which, coincidentally, was also the week of his first cold. He was 12 weeks old.

He was particularly prone to ear infections; his sister’s disease of choice has been croup. I promise we wash our hands, and I swipe a Clorox wipe over anything that stands still, but the germs seem to find us anyway.

So far our high score has been four pediatrician visits in a seven-day span, but a new year always brings potential for topping that. After receiving our last health insurance EOB—which rivaled a Christmas catalog in thickness—I texted my slightly hippie, Southern California friend.

“Gimme all your wellness product recs,” I pleaded. Within 15 minutes I had $93 worth of vitamins, supplements, and bone broth in my Amazon cart, all of dubious medicinal value but I was willing to try anything for a 14-day stretch of moderate healthiness.

The truth is, I’m frustrated—with the sickness, with the doctor visits, with the expense and the inconvenience of it all. I’m worried—about the sickness, the doctor visits, the expense and inconvenience of it all. And I’m tired.

Lord, I’m so very tired.

But I’m also not unaware of our relative good fortune. My children’s illnesses, despite significantly overstaying their welcome, will go away—whether it’s thanks to a 10 day dose of antibiotics or just that ancient combination of fluids, comfort, and time. We live in a place where modern medicine and good hygiene are accessible and affordable. When we go to our local children’s hospital—one of the best in the nation—it’s just to visit a specialist to talk about the best approach to manage Ellie’s asthma. When I walk out of a children’s hospital holding the hand of my (relatively) healthy child, there is always a prayer on my lips.

Father, for an illness that is only an inconvenience, I give you thanks.

***

When Ellie was two, she woke in the middle of the night (it is always the middle of the night) blazing to the touch with a rash over her torso. In the morning, the pediatrician matter-of-factly diagnosed her with scarlet fever, as I gasped and clutched my now-dozing toddler in fear.

“Oh my God. Isn’t that what killed Beth in Little Women?”

“Well, yes,” the doctor replied, amused. “But that was before penicillin. Scarlet fever is just strep throat with a rash.”

“Wait … Beth died of strep throat?”

“Technically she died because the strep went untreated and untreated strep can inflame the heart muscle and weaken it,” she explained. “But … yes.”

She clicked a couple of boxes on her laptop and without lifting her eyes asked, “do you want the prescription sent to Walgreens or Publix?”

Thirty minutes later, I picked up the amoxicillin that would cure my daughter’s scarlet fever in less than 48 hours. I took her home, and she snuggled into the curve of my side to watch Frozen for the 87th time. The list of modern advantages I’m grateful for over the way of life in the late 1800s is not a short one—air conditioning, indoor plumbing, and washing machines among them. But on that day, antibiotics were right at the very top.

This winter, it’s not scarlet fever. It’s colds and sore throats and pneumonia and asthma attacks. Small worries in the grand scheme of things. Sooner or later, these illnesses will leave and stay gone. But I’ll also readily admit that I wouldn’t mind if it’s sooner.

For now, we’re taking the Elderberry gummies and the Vitamin D and the other vitamins with something else—zinc, maybe?—and rubbing on oils and diffusing oils and even swallowing oils. I made last night’s rice in bone broth and it was the single most expensive batch of rice I’ve ever cooked in my life, but since it cost less than the $87 we pay for each pediatrician visit I’m calling it a bargain. It’s been exactly 14 days since our last doctor visit, and you better believe I knocked on wood the second I wrote that sentence.

Maybe the hippie wellness products are working. Maybe my complete aversion to public places and people in general is working. Could be that it’s just luck or timing or there’s also the chance my daughter is going to wake up at 2 a.m. with a fever and we’ll be sitting in an exam room this time tomorrow, our streak of health coming to an abrupt end.

It’s winter. It feels like the sun will never shine again, the trees will always be bare, and my kids are going to be sick forever. But spring, while sometimes late, has never failed to show entirely. My children, while seemingly locked in perpetual low-grade illness, will eventually get better. I am not so mired in my own mucus-encrusted misery that I miss that miracle. And it’s no small thing to be thankful for.


Photo by N’tima Preusser.

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In Perspective Tags winter, sickness, sick kids
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Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
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I proceeded to shop as the suckle, suckle, swallow sound drowned out the cart’s squeaky wheels. I casually scanned produce and peeked inside an egg carton, acting as if this was my norm. I’m just the kind of mom who goes on about life with a baby attached to her nipple for all to see. No big deal. At first I avoided eye contact with other shoppers, particularly with the middle aged man who happened to need the same tub of Greek yogurt at the exact moment I bent over to grab mine. When I saw him lingering near the sweet potatoes and sneaking glances, I pulled down on my son’s chin, attempting to widen his latch and hide more of my breast. His mouth slipped off for a moment, and I’m pretty sure the man saw my boob. Welcome to motherhood.
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But a funny thing happened by the time I reached aisle four; I felt confident, almost proud. I felt like a mom. As it turns out, the past five years have produced a mom who knows what she’s doing every now and then.
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// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile

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Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I proceeded to shop as the suckle, suckle, swallow sound drowned out the cart’s squeaky wheels. I casually scanned produce and peeked inside an egg carton, acting as if this was my norm. I’m just the kind of mom who goes on about life with a baby attached to her nipple for all to see. No big deal. At first I avoided eye contact with other shoppers, particularly with the middle aged man who happened to need the same tub of Greek yogurt at the exact moment I bent over to grab mine. When I saw him lingering near the sweet potatoes and sneaking glances, I pulled down on my son’s chin, attempting to widen his latch and hide more of my breast. His mouth slipped off for a moment, and I’m pretty sure the man saw my boob. Welcome to motherhood.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
But a funny thing happened by the time I reached aisle four; I felt confident, almost proud. I felt like a mom. As it turns out, the past five years have produced a mom who knows what she’s doing every now and then.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile
Birth exposes you in ways you’re not expecting, and I don’t just mean the most private areas of your body, which are exposed to a room full of medical professionals. It exposes your heart, too. Never before have I been so incapable of hiding my innermost feelings; the love for my newborn son, the fear for my ruined body, the awareness of the fragility of life. My husband saw me at my weakest, in every possible way. Now, six weeks later, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. What if this experience has completely changed how he feels about me?
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My doctor gave me the green light to resume normal activity. I’m healed, she says. But here I am, sitting at a green light, frozen in place. Green light means go, but I’m scared to move forward.
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I take a step closer to the mirror, then shimmy out of my yoga pants and tank top, slipping on the black lace lingerie. Maybe he doesn’t see me the same way. But it’s possible that what he says is true, and after all this, he loves me even more. I want so desperately to trust him and let his reassurances drown out the self-deprecating voice in my head.
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God had to literally knock me off my feet for me to finally let someone see me completely. All I want to do right now is build my walls back up, but I won’t. Isn’t this the whole idea of marriage? Truly seeing someone and loving them anyway? And truly letting yourself be seen and letting yourself be loved?
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Our bedroom door quietly creaks open. I turn toward my husband, my heart racing with fear and anticipation and everything in between. Within seconds, he’s crossed the room, filling the space between us.
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His kiss tells me more than words possibly could.
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// From "Green Light Means Go" by an anonymous guest writer, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
A stack of puzzles sits atop our office desk. Each puzzle has at least one missing piece. We’ve searched couch cushions, rearranged furniture, and moved tables and dressers. We don’t give up, at least not yet; the stack of puzzles attests to that fact. Their presence reminding us to keep looking, to keep hoping to find what is lost.
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I want to tell my husband that our marriage, or our love more aptly, is like those missing puzzle pieces.
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Not necessarily lost for all time, but buried underneath something else.
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I try to remember the excitement and tingle of first love and the joy of being together on long car rides. Those feelings are still there, yet most days I fear they’re buried beneath the rigors and busyness of our day-to-day lives.
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Some days I’ll go to bed without saying goodnight or giving a good night kiss - not because I don’t feel anything, but because I just can’t do one more thing.
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My love lies hidden with the puzzle pieces under the couch.
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The other day, our daughter came running to us both. Cheering and exclaiming, “This, this, this!” as she shows us a puzzle piece. She places it in the missing hole. The puzzle is complete once again.
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She’s cheering, we’re cheering.
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The piece wasn’t lost, just waiting for us to find it. Waiting for us to be surprised by its presence once again.
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There are moments when my feelings of love come bursting forth. I want to cheer, too, like my daughter. “This, this, this. This is the love I know and felt.” I want to jump for joy again and fall into your arms.
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I hope we’ll keep unearthing this love, keep searching for it, for years to come. Leaving pieces of ourselves and this love wherever we go.
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We fit together, you and I.
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We belong together like the one missing piece that can’t be found until you’ve stopped looking for it, and find it suddenly right where you left it.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member Kimberly Knowle-Zeller
"We’ll figure it out." They seem like rote, meaningless words, don’t they? If there’s a continuum from the solid confidence of “A Plan” to the futility of “Grasping at Straws,” “figuring it out” feels like it falls closer to the latter. In the face of fear and uncertainty about things as big and weighty as health and financial stability, it’s a solution so nebulous and ambiguous that it should fall flat upon delivery. Instead it has provided courage, absolution, and comfort by turn.
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Why?
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I can’t be sure, but I think it’s the “we” that makes the difference. My fear and shame is Jon’s. His worry and anxiety is mine. It’s not just my stuff to work through or his to deal with. It’s ours, and I’m learning that it’s just as much an act of love to allow someone else to carry your burdens as it is to be the one who offers to help. We’ll figure it out has become our shorthand for “I’m going to help you carry this and you’re going to let me because of the love between us.”
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It took six months of the tightest budget imaginable, but we figured out quitting my job.
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It took a few extra writing gigs and moving some money from savings, but we figured out the credit card bill.
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And it took two weeks of tests, but I was sitting in the doctor’s office with Jon when we found out that his heart is fine—the irregularities are harmless and nothing to worry about.
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After 10 years of marriage, we’ve learned there are times for plans and research and arguments and spreadsheets. And then there are times to close the computer, stop debating, and make the call. There are my battles, his battles, and the ones we fight together, guarding each other’s weak side. There are nights when we stay up for hours, talking through options. And there are nights when the only words we need are "I know." "I understand." "We’ll figure it out."
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// From "We'll Figure It Out" by @jennbatchelor, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
Her feet pitter patter across the tile floor as our daughter races toward the door. “Da! Da! Da!”
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I smile and stir the stew on the stovetop. The kitchen is warm, filled with the aroma of browned beef and stewed tomatoes. Glancing out the window, I’m surprised to find it’s still light outside--he hasn’t been home before dark in weeks.
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His truck shuts off, the dog kennel door clangs, and finally, his boots clomp across the porch.
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“Dad!” our son shouts as the front door squeaks open. “I want to show you something!”
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I hear him whispering to our girl in the entry. I add frozen peas to the bubbling pot on the stove.
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“Daddy, want to play play-doh with me?” our son asks.
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His hands are cracked and calloused, his sweatshirt dirty and faded. There’s mud on his pant leg and gray in his beard. His eyes are tired, but he puts our daughter on one knee, our son on the other, and scoops up a ball of play-doh without hesitation.
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He’s wearing the same black wool vest he wore on our wedding day six years ago. It’s faded to gray and it’s missing a couple of buttons. If you look closely at the seam you can see blue thread where I mended it last winter.
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That vest is a little like us.
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We’ve been torn apart by our egos and months-long unemployment, by our son’s undiagnosed cleft lip, and the feeding tube required to keep our daughter alive. We lost a button when the medical bills piled up, and another when we bought our fixer-upper.
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But we mended those places; our seams sewn back together with time and apologies and dedication.
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The way we love each other doesn't look how it used to, doesn’t feel the way it used to, either.
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Our love is no longer new and crisp. It’s worn and tested, like that faded old vest.
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And tonight, with soup on the stove and two babies on his lap, I can’t help but notice how good he looks in gray.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member @carastolen
On a whim, I book a nursing photography session. It’s fall, and I buy new clothes for the session because that’s what you do in the fall. Time seems to be slipping from us as I move on autopilot, and years later, I can’t tell you how we spent our days. I only recall all the crying in the middle of the night, my hands that shook all the time, and how scared I was of what was happening, and what was to come. Then, what races through my head on repeat: I am a woman who gets left, a woman whose husband is sleeping with someone else, a woman who can’t even convince the father of her children to call them regularly. There is nothing worthy about me. "Put your fat stomach away. It’s ugly." Everything about my sons is magnificent and as much of a failure as I am, I am the only person they have to take care of them. That fact holds me hostage more than the voice in my head—"I don’t want to ever see that again. Do you understand?"—otherwise, I would never get out of bed.
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When the photos from the nursing session land in my inbox, it’s not the fading sun embracing us or the brilliant framing that catches my attention. It’s the way my baby is reaching for my face as he nurses, his eyes locked on mine, so it seems we are almost the same person still. My shirt is pushed down around my breast; you can hardly tell we are nursing: we could be just another baby and mama pair captivated by one another. My breath catches as I realize, he loves me. I don’t know what my baby sees in me, and over the next few days I become obsessed with flipping through the photos and trying to understand: What have I missed about myself, the person who doesn’t deserve to be loved?
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// From "Putting Fat Stomachs in Their Place" by guest writer @lacianne.schmidt, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

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