Baby Bunny: The Many Ways My Second Child Has Made Me Realize I Was Crazy When I Had My First

Baby Alexandra was born on December 3rd.

I have to admit, I wasn't really looking forward to having a newborn again. I know that sounds terrible, but it's true. In part, I blame my sister, whose new baby boy was born at the end of October and whose Facebook feed after his birth was a train wreck of miserable-sounding updates about how whiny and difficult her new baby was.

It got me thinking about Caitlyn's first few months on this Earth. I would never say she was a bad baby, but I do remember feeling overwhelmed by her needs. She seemed to always need something- a bottle, a diaper change, a burp, non-specific comfort. Add to that sleep deprivation and the fact that she wouldn't latch so I was pumping my breastmilk every 2 hours, and it felt like a never-ending cycle where I didn't even have time to take a shower. And I had help back then. Rodolfo and I were living together, and he brought his parents to stay with us for the first month after Caitlyn was born.

So I was thinking of all of this. Of the neediness. Of not having someone always around to help. Of having to do all that newborn baby, needy meatloaf shit while simultaneously taking care of my 3 year old. And I was a little freaked out.

And then my new baby came and I realized all that freaking out was for nothing. She's totally sweet and easy and mellow. Also? I realized that I was kind of a paranoid fucking crazy person when I had my first daughter. Here are some other lessons I learned:

1. Taking a shower isn't negligent parenting. No newborn baby ever died/was ruined for life because they woke up during mommy's 10 minute shower and cried for a few minutes while she was busy washing crusted breastmilk off her nipples and making sure her c-section incision didn't end up infected because she hadn't showered in a week. Also? That hilarious nonsense where I'd put Caitlyn in her bouncy seat and bring it into the bathroom with me just to be sure she didn't smother herself in her crib while I showered? No thanks. She couldn't even fucking move. What did I really expect was going to happen? And another thing about that- if the baby starts crying while I shampoo my hair, I'm not going to stop shampooing my hair out of guilt (and you can only really hear them crying if you bring them in the bathroom with you anyway). Wait 5 minutes kid, I promise you'll survive.

2. Everyone thinks you are a moron when you have a newborn. And I'm not just talking about well-meaning old grannies on the street who want to tell you all the ways in which your baby isn't warm enough. I'm talking about the very first people you encounter after having the baby- the hospital staff. Man, do they ever think you're an idiot. And the first time, they are sorta right. As a first-time mom, I remember listening so intently to every ridiculously obvious piece of advice they gave me at the hospital. Sure, a lot of it seemed like common sense, but in the same way, a lot of it was stuff that never even occurred to me to think about. This time? Did I really need to attend the "mandatory" class the hospital expects you to take before you leave? Thanks, but I already knew that I shouldn't leave my newborn on a counter and walk away. I already knew that I should burp her halfway through a feeding. And, presumably everyone attending this class has been tending to a vagina on a regular basis for a minimum of 15-20 years, right? What grown ass woman needs it explained to her that she should be "wiping front to back" when changing diapers? Because really, that's just a delicate way of saying "you know you shouldn't smear shit into your infant daughter's vagina, right?". WE SHOULD ALL KNOW THIS ALREADY!

3. Neediness of the baby variety is significantly less impressive to me this time around. As I said, with Caitlyn, it was a big transition going from doing whatever the fuck I wanted to constantly putting the needs of another person ahead of my own. It was overwhelming. Now? Well, I have to say, the needs of my 3 year old greatly outnumber the needs of my newborn. The baby? Food, sleep, fresh diapers. That is literally it. Sometimes she wants to be held and sometimes she's got a fart stuck in her belly that she's trying to get out, but other than that, she needs very little from me. Caitlyn, on the other hand, needs more than just basic life necessities. So in addition to having to make sure she is fed, clothed, and bathed, there are about a million other needs she has: Every single toy she sees on a commercial, for example (or Bulova watch on a billboard, for that matter. She's in an I-want-literally-everything-I-see phase). A glass of water the exact moment my head hits the pillow to go to sleep. Chocolate milk in her Happy Meal, even though I explicitly asked her multiple times and she insisted she wanted apple juice. And those are just some physical needs. Her emotional needs are endless and I'm expected to solve every existential crisis of her 3 year old life- why is the sky blue, what is that dog doing to that other dog, why can't I have a lollipop before dinner, why do I even have to eat dinner, why can't I look at my vagina in a public place, why does his mommy let him do stuff that my mommy doesn't let me do- WHY ARE YOU SUCH A MEAN MOMMY?? In the end, I'll do anything for my girls. That's what I signed up for when I signed up for being a mom. It's just funny in retrospect to think about how overwhelmed I was by providing only the most basic of needs for a cute, smooshy little meatball that couldn't even move (let alone throw a temper tantrum, or actively disobey me) when I put her down somewhere.

4. Sleep deprivation is another thing that was utterly jarring the first time around. Now? Well kid, I haven't had an uninterrupted night of sleep in 4 years, and you're out cold 20 hours a day. Come at me. I can handle it just fine.

5. They aren't as breakable as you think they are at first. Caitlyn's first few months were smooth sailing. At worst, I think she had a bad rash once or twice. I remember when she was about 6 or 7 months old. I had been clipping her fingernails, but I couldn't find the baby nail clipper, and so I made the poor choice to use a grown up one. You know where this is going. I clipped the tip of one of her fingers. Not like I clipped it off, but I cut it enough that it was bleeding pretty steadily for a solid 10 minutes. I spent those 10 minutes in absolute hysterics, begging Rodolfo to take us to the emergency room. And because I was clutching onto her, sobbing like a lunatic and cursing myself for being the cause of the first real pain she had ever felt- the "worst thing that had ever happened to her" by my own assessment- she was hysterical too. When I called my mom and asked her to please convey the seriousness of the situation to Rodolfo, she told me "maybe you need to calm down and listen to your husband. Because based on what you are telling me, I really doubt that you have to worry about her bleeding to death from the tip of her finger.".

I think back to that, to how laughable her "injury" was and how terrified I was that she wouldn't survive it without medical intervention, and I realize how far I've come. I was never really the hysterical type, and once Caitlyn started walking and injuring herself every 12 seconds or so, I really developed a "shake it off" mentality. In fact, Caitlyn will tell me she's shaking it off now if she gets a little bump or bruise.

I bring this last one up because of what we are going through right now. I don't think I could have handled it if it had happened to Caitlyn. I would have been writing checks to Jesus that my base faith level simply couldn't cash. Baby Alexandra, at 26 days old, got admitted to the hospital for pneumonia. She had some nasal congestion and was sneezing for a couple of days leading up to it, and I had brought her to the pediatrician, who gave me a nebulizer and saline solution to try to break up her congestion. And then a day or so later she spiked a fever and came down with a horrible cough. I followed up with a second visit 2 days after I took her initially, and got sent immediately to the ER. After a chest x-ray, some bloodwork, and a lumbar puncture, it was determined that Alex has RSV- a common respiratory infection that still would have sucked had she been a little older when she got it, but it probably wouldn't have ended up turning into pneumonia over the course of a day or two. So we've been in the hospital, and she was admitted to the pediatric ICU a few days ago, when her breathing got considerably worse and she wasn't able to breathe well enough to even eat. But we've made a lot of progress since then and we hope to be going home in a day or two. She's a tough little cookie, just like her sister, and she's fighting this with everything she's got.

So that's my update. I had that baby I was telling you guys about. What's that? Pictures you say? Why, of course there are pictures.

My Vagina Shriveled Up and Died Yesterday. You Know, Probably.

You know that saying about things "getting better with age"? You know, like wine and cheese and Angus fucking beef? In case you are in your early 20s and you actually believe that shit, let me assure you that it is a lie.

I turned 30 yesterday. Remember when birthdays were something you looked forward to? Your special day. Let's break down birthdays, shall we?

Ages 1-4:  You had very little say in these birthdays, and you probably don't even remember them, but let me assure you that they were awesome. Your parents went overboard. There were maybe a dozen people you actually gave a shit about, and the novelty of your birthday had not yet worn off for them, so they always showed up. With awesome presents (because, really, what ISN'T awesome when you are 3? Nothing. There is nothing you wouldn't play with. Your guests could show up with 2 pens in a cardboard box and you would have thought that was the greatest gift ever and spent hours playing with your 2 pens). And there were balloons. And cake. Yeah. These birthdays were pretty fucking sweet.

Ages 5-9: At this point, you probably had a favorite something. TV show, cartoon character, whatever. And so your parents would buy paper plates and cups featuring your favorite thing and bags of shitty little plastic toys because it is easy as fuck to make a 7 year old happy. You would have a little party in your house or backyard and everyone would sing Happy Birthday. Then you would eat your body weight in cake and ice cream and drink a gallon of soda. Because you were the birthday girl and no one was going to tell you that you couldn't. And that was just the weekend celebration. A few days before or a few days after, your mom would bring cupcakes and Capri Sun to your school so EVERYONE would know it was your birthday. Cupcakes and Capri Sun are the shit.

Ages 10-13: You probably didn't get cupcakes and Capri Sun days at school anymore, but you still got a party of your choosing. Instead of cake and balloons with family and friends, you invited a few of your school friends over for a "cool" party. It was probably a slumber party. And even though you had that one friend with the overbearing mom who wouldn't let her sleep over your house even though you knew her for half her life, it was still fun. You would play games and dance and do each other's makeup. Slumber parties were awesome.

Ages 14-17: You officially thought you were "too cool/old" for birthday parties. You insisted that no one throw a party for you, even though you secretly hoped they would. And really, you knew they would never actually not throw a party for you. Even if it was just your immediate family with cake and presents, they still made a big enough deal to make you feel special. Even the "too cool" years were fun!

Age 18: You could now buy porn and cigarettes. Which is okay, I guess, but you probably waxed aloud at least once about the fact that your friends should have taken you on a road trip to Canada where you could now legally drink. Since no one was actually going to take you to Canada, you instead took your first trip to the "porn store", where they surprisingly never asked for your ID even after you and your friends spent way too much time giggling. This is also the day that you learned that fisting is actually a thing that people want to happen to them. Enough people that the porn store has a giant fist dildo that must have been in great enough demand that they actually carry such a thing. Fisting. Your 18th birthday is primarily about Canada and fisting.

Ages 19-20: You wish you were 21 already. Maybe you go to an 18-and-over club because you are not yet old enough to realize how utterly awful they are. 18-and-over clubs are like the fisting of your 19th and 20th birthdays. If you learned your lesson at 19, maybe you got your friend's boyfriend with the beard to make a run to the shady liquor store that everyone (except the cops, apparently) knew would sell to you even if you were underage for your 20th birthday. Ill-gotten booze makes your 20th birthday a triumph. A drunken, maybe-someone-will-puke-in-your-house TRIUMPH.

Age 21: YOU ARE OLD ENOUGH TO DRINK NOW. GO TO A BAR. Oh, by the way, bars are expensive. And more than likely, only about half your friends are actually old enough to go with you. The other half are too broke to go. Remember how your 20th birthday was a triumph? Try to recreate that with a house party. Except now YOU can make the liquor run. 21st birthday? SUCCESS. Maybe not what you expected, but a success none the less.

Age 22-24: Keep trying to plan that bar birthday you were hoping for when you turned 21. All your friends are old enough now, but they are all still too broke to pay $8 a pop for drinks. House party? HOUSE PARTY. Several drinks in, every year, without fail, you will realize you do not have any more fun birthdays on the horizon. You are slowly coasting towards 30, aka, the end of your youth. You will cry about this at least one of these years. The other 2 will be awesome.

Age 25: You realize you are now closer to 30 than 20. Fuck. Your friends could probably afford to go out drinking now, but you don't even want to. You remember the 18-and-over club from your 19th birthday and how shitty it was and how much younger everyone was then. You definitely will not be going to a club. Maybe a bar? I don't know... doesn't it seem like clubs are something young people do and bars are something old people do? I guess you are old now. You will probably end up at Applebees with your best friend, drinking watered down sugary drinks and eating half-priced appetizers. This is the absolute LAST year that this is acceptable.

Ages 26-29: You no longer want to celebrate your birthday at all. You still want presents though. You realize that your mom is the only person who has even thought to give you a present in the last 8 years or so, because everyone else was just pooling their money for alcohol. Now you would like some presents, thank you very much. But maybe give them to me some other day? For some other occasion? You know what? Just forget the presents. No need to mark how close I'm getting to 30.

Age 30: Plan something fun/awesome. You have money to do things now and everyone you know insists on commemorating the slaughter of your youth. Eagerly anticipate fun/awesome, right up until a week or so before your birthday. The thoughts of fun/awesome are then clouded over by the thoughts of what am I doing with my life/IS THAT A FUCKING WRINKLE???? Cry daily. Make major life changes/have third-life crisis (yes. Third. I refuse to call it a mid-life crisis. Fuck that. Mid NOTHING).

I can't say my actual birthday was terribly shitty. I mean, I had to work. Because that's another thing about those 18-25 birthdays (especially summer birthdays like mine): You and your friends will ditch work to do fun shit. But I'm fucking 30 now, and so are most of my friends. Bitch got bills to pay and a kid to diaper. No one was ditching work to dick around all afternoon. But after work, Rodolfo took me to dinner and got me a cake (yeah... it IS kinda weird to have a birthday dinner with my estranged husband. I know.). He also got me a really nice present (because only being nice to your wife after she decides to leave you is not weird at all, apparently). And I guess I only cried a little bit. Next weekend, Nadine is taking me out drinking. To a bar. Like proper adults/old people. Because sometimes you have to push your birthday weekend back a bit because of conflicting plans. That is just what grown-ups do.

Anyway. So here I am. 30. Ick. But I survived it.

Congratulations! You are a Grown Up Now

I've heard many a friend, family member and blogger wonder aloud when they will start to feel like a grown up. Despite the idea that we are technically adults at the age of 18, I don't think I know a single person who felt even slightly grown up until they were at the very least in their late 20s. Because, let's be honest here: being a grown up is fucking terrible.

I was one of those annoyingly precocious kids who always wanted to be an adult from a very young age. I wanted to be taken seriously. Part of it was that I had strong, intelligent opinions for as long as I can remember and I wanted those to be taken seriously. I was very lucky that my mom always did give me that respect, even when I was being a snotty little know-it-all. But then I actually started to grow up. I went out on my own and worked full time at a shitty job I hated for almost no money (and really, isn't that sort of the definition of being a grown up?) from the time I was 19 or so.

Despite my desire to be the best grown up, I failed pretty spectacularly at it for the first few years. And by "failed pretty spectacularly", I mean I did what EVERY OTHER 19 year old on their own for the first time does. I pissed away my money on booze and Wendy's value meals. I ran up the one credit card I had so that every payment I made just barely covered the previous month's late or over-the-limit fee. I did not have cable or internet. I did not wash dishes and I only did laundry when the situation became desperate. I may have been a legal grown-up, but I was not wearing that title well.

With my 30th birthday just a few sad, short weeks away, I started thinking about this whole grown-up business. How do you know when you're really there? Well, dear readers, I think I've figured it out:

1. Your Drinking Recovery Time Slows. Significantly. I remember back in the day, when all I needed was a couple of extra hours of sleep, a glass of water and McDonald's breakfast to cure a hangover. Now? Now I need the number of recovery DAYS equal to how many drinks I had. And I spend those days with a perpetual headache and the drinking shits.... speaking of shits though...

2. You Are No Longer Embarrassed to Take a Shit at Work/in a Public Bathroom. I used to hold it for HOURS. I would not ever shit in a public bathroom. What if the strangers in that bathroom heard me straining or- god forbid- SMELLED MY POOP? WHAT IF THEY SMELLED MY POOP YOU GUYS? Apparently I was under the impression that I was the only person in the world with a colon. Now? Eff that. I will take all the shits in all the places. That being said, oh my god, please fucking double-check your flush when you shit in a public bathroom. I do NOT need to see that.

3. You Learn the Correct Combination of Lady Care Products to Avoid Blood Stained Pants. I can't tell you how many pants I ruined in my teens and early 20s. You know what though? I'm a fucking grown-up now and I no longer shop at Rainbow so my pants cost more than $12. A lot more. I would venture to say that I could buy 2 pairs of super low-rise jeans, 3 ill-fitting bejeweled t-shirts and one pair of clear plastic platform hooker shoes from Rainbow for the cost of one pair of work appropriate pants.

4. You Refuse to Comment on Any Facebook Post That Contains the Word "Drama". Because really, just stop it. "Drama" is for children. And hood rats.

5. Applebee's is No Longer Your "Going Out" Spot. Because half price appetizers when you are paying $8 a pop for watered down drinks? Not as much of a bargain as you might want to believe. Also? That shit where they sing the saddest "Happy Birthday" to some middle-aged woman whose dumbass husband thought that Applebee's was the right choice. No. Never ever.

6. You Don't Show Up to House Parties Empty-Handed. This is perhaps a result of the change in expectations for what a "house party" is. Instead of expecting beer pong and Natty Ice, I now expect appetizers and Grey Goose. And you have to bring a fucking dessert or some shit when your hostess always provides Grey Goose.

7. You Don't Hesitate to Call Customer Service. Even when it's to complain that only one of the three-pack of vibrators you ordered showed up. What the hell is that, anyway? Don't advertise it as a three-pack and ship them all separately!

8. You Make Yourself Get Up and Go to Work Even When You Really, Really Don't Want to. Do you know how many days I think to myself "5 years ago I would have DEFINITELY called out today".

9. You Can afford to Buy the More Economical 12 Pack of Paper Towels, as opposed to buying them one roll at a time, because you currently have more than $9.47 in your checking account to survive on until your next paycheck.

10. You Don't Pay For Things in Change. Anymore.

11. You Own More Than One Laundry Cycle's Worth of Socks and Underwear, so you don't have to keep your old, holey emergency undies with the ripped elastic "just in case" you run out (and, for that matter, you don't have to keep those fucking awful, uncomfortable thongs you bought at the request of some jackass who wasn't going to have a string up his ass all day).

So I guess I'm there, then? A full-fledged grown-up and everything! Did I miss anything? How did you guys know you were officially a grown-up?

Two

So I've been really busy whining and bitching about my problems and I forgot to mention something extremely important.

Yesterday was Caitlyn's second birthday.

The mood in my house has been... quietly tolerant, I guess? We haven't been fighting really, but we haven't been talking either. Still, it was Caitlyn's birthday and we were going to have to spend some time together.

To make matters as awkward as humanly possible, Rodolfo sent flowers to my job yesterday. There was a card that simply said "I miss you. I'm sorry". I didn't quite know how to handle it. It made me emotional and sad, but not because I was questioning my decision to leave. I was mostly upset because of all days that I wanted nothing more than to pretend things were even slightly normal, it would have been yesterday. I did not want to have THAT conversation, the one where he thinks throwing me a bone once every 2 years and doing something nice makes up for everything else.

I was also worried about addressing it with anyone at work. Everyone is pretty friendly at my job, and inevitably someone would ask who sent them and why. Was it my birthday? Our anniversary? No. My husband doesn't send me gifts to be nice. He sends them when I tell him I'm leaving him! I guess I could lie, but I'm actually a pretty terrible liar, plus I was upset about the whole thing, so I was worried someone would ask and I'd start crying like an asshole. Luckily, it was late in the afternoon when the flowers arrived and no one passed my desk before I went home.

I mentioned that my car died and it's currently at my mechanic being fixed. Which means Rodolfo had to pick me up from the train station. He was 15 minutes late. There I was, standing in the rain, vase full of flowers in one hand, cake box in the other, waiting around for him to show up and missing even more of Caitlyn's birthday.

I sort of got irrationally angry. By the time he showed up, I bitched him out a little about being late and didn't even mention the flowers I was holding. Then we went to Toys R Us.

Toys R Us was the highlight of the night. Caitlyn spent the first 15 minutes or so wandering through the aisles, playing with anything that caught her interest until we found the place she really wanted to be: The car aisle.

Umm.. you guys? Shouldn't I have approximately 14 more years until she starts hounding me for a fucking CAR?

Anyway. She spent a solid 30 minutes climbing in and out of every car she could reach, trying to decide which $500 toy that I definitely can't afford/don't have the room for was her favorite. All of the electric cars were obviously not going to move, but once she got into that Cozy Coupe, I could not get her out of it. She spent another 15 pushing it around the store, or having Rodolfo push her around the store in it. Unfortunately, they actually only had the display available or I definitely would have bought it for her. I had to bribe her with an ice pop while Rodolfo ran away with it so she wouldn't start to cry.

After that we went to dinner and Caitlyn ate surprisingly well, which was nice. Then we went home and had cake. We sang "Happy Birthday" and she sang along with us. She blew out her candles. She had a great time and loved the shit out of her cake. She was the champion of birthdays.

So. Happy Birthday to my baby girl! Also, I promise next year I won't throw your party together at the very last minute.

CAKE!!!

I know, I know. None of this shit is exciting for anyone but me. And yeah, I don't really care. Here is a video of Caitlyn eating her birthday cake. I promise my next post will have more words.

Caitlyn's First Birthday!

Birthday Plagues

Are you looking for a way to be 200% more disgusting and disease-ridden? Let me tell you, having kids is the way to go!

Is 200% just not disgusting enough? Try corralling the little disease mongers all in one place. Like your child's first birthday party! Nothing says "let's celebrate" like pink eye and vomit!

So Saturday was Caitlyn's first birthday party. And don't get me wrong, it was lovely. We had a beautiful day, weather-wise, and I was excited that her very first birthday actually fell on a Saturday so we could celebrate with everyone together. There was cake, presents and merriment.

The problem became that not EVERYONE was together. I mean, the most important players were there, save for my step-father, Jerry, who was home with a vicious chest cold. But there were definitely a few other absentees who didn't make it because they weren't feeling well. I'm not mad about it or anything. Who needs a bunch of sickies at a baby's birthday party? No one. That's who.

So remember my dad? He stopped by my house last week while Caitlyn had the stomach flu and apparently he caught it. There must be an incubation period of about a week, because despite feeling crappy for a few days before, the full force of the stomach plague didn't hit him till Saturday. Despite having to take the bus and whining incessantly about how inconvenient it would be, he decided that, stomach flu and all, he would come to Caitlyn's party. And infect the masses. He showed up an hour late, hung around for half an hour, then passed out in my brother-in-law's car for the remainder of the party because he felt so shitty.

Another sickly party goer was my niece, Adrianna. She's had what seemed like a cold and was all slimy and drowsy. My sister really didn't want to miss Caitlyn's party and decided to bring her anyway. And for the most part, besides toward the end when she was very tired, she did very well and played with her cousins and had fun.

Overall, the party was a success. While I was setting up, the new director of the parks department in our county came over to introduce himself and gave me a bunch of free passes for the zoo, carousel and train ride, which all the children thoroughly enjoyed. The older kids, having made it through the zoo and back to the party site before a few of us who had smaller kids, used their active imaginations to think up fun new games for them to play. Games like "who can keep their hand in the bucket of ice water the longest". Ahh yes, childhood innocence!

After the zoo, carousel and "iceberg" games, we sang "Happy Birthday" and cut the cake. Caitlyn had her own little cake, which she dove into with both hands until she was elbow deep in frosting. It was all very adorable. We ended the party shortly after that and all the kids went home with super awesome, age-appropriate gift bags that I made for them (3 and under got a sippy cup and hand puppet, older girls got an assortment of Hello Kitty party garbage and older boys got a water gun and candy). We loaded our car full of goodies and went home. Where we stayed for approximately an hour before I had to take Rodolfo to the emergency room.

Rodolfo has had pretty severe pollen allergies (or as I like to call them, pussy allergies) as long as I've known him, but they've been getting progressively worse over the last few years. I think this is the case for a lot of people (or that's what I've heard- I dunno, I bet it's global warming's fault), but his are very difficult to manage because he has yet to find an antihistamine that does anything to help. So after spending an entire day outside in mid-spring, his eyes were as red as a Twilight vampire and tearing and swelling to the point where he could barely see to drive home (we took 2 cars- I'm not an asshole who just refused to drive him). In addition to the eyes, he had really bad asthma as a kid, which always kicks back up around allergy season. So he couldn't breathe so well either. And he was boogering out his nose like his life depended on large quantities of mucus.

So we did go to the ER. Where they did nothing, but managed to get us out in record time (less than an hour). Basically they said "here are some prescriptions for your symptoms, don't abuse them and go see an allergist". Hmmm... an allergist. Why had that never occured to him before? I mean, it makes sense that I would never think of it, because I have strong genes and don't suffer from such immune system failures as ALLERGIES. Fucking allergies. Really. He informed me that he DID get an allergy shot once and that it hadn't worked. That he was "referred" by someone he used to work with to some doctor in the ghetto who "didn't ask any questions and just gave (me) a shot". Yeah, genius. I wonder why that didn't work out for you.

Anyway. So to say I had a long day on Saturday would be putting in mildly. I ran around from 8:30am-9:30pm between set-up, party, clean-up, ER and prescription filling. So when I woke up Sunday morning feeling achy and exhausted, I wasn't suprised or concerned or thinking I had been infected with the stomach plague at all. By Sunday evening my stomach was a little upset and I skipped dinner, but I still didn't think much of it.

When I woke up Monday morning, I felt like I was hit by a truck. I was freezing and sweating at the same time and I could barely get out of bed. I got up, brushed my teeth and started getting dressed for work. Then I vomitted, took off my pants and went back to sleep. And then I pretty much slept the entire day. I got up a couple of times, to feed or change Caitlyn, but mostly she hung out and played in her crib all day while I slept. I really couldn't have asked for her to be any better. Rodolfo came home a few hours later and he took care of her the rest of the day while I slept and occasionally ate a piece of toast.

As it turns out, it was a good thing I was too sick to go to work yesterday. A few hours after I sent my sister a text to let her know I would be staying home with Caitlyn, she texted me back to tell me she wouldn't be able to watch her till Thursday. Remember how Adrianna was a little sick and slimy at the party? Apparently she had pink eye, and she gave it to my nephew. A few hours after that, my younger sister texted me too "In case A. didn't tell you, Adrianna has pink eye, sorry if Caitlyn gets it too". As of yet, Caitlyn has no symptoms of pink eye and I'm really hoping it stays that way.

As I've mentioned before, we are all close to my mother. We talk to her about everything, and baby stuff in particular. I call my mother long before I ever call my doctor. And if I've spoken to both of them and gotten conflicting advice, I'll usually take my mother's word first. So naturally, I had called her to tell her about all the plagues and whatnot. Adrianna lives with her, so she knew about the pink eye, but when I told her about the stomach plague, she informed me that she too, had gotten it. And remember how my step-dad was too sick to make it to the party at all? As it turns out, he has pneumonia (complicated by COPD and emphysema) and was admitted to the hospital last night for IV antibiotics.

That last part doesn't sound funny. Unless you heard it from my mother's point of view. "I had to leave Jerry at the hospital and come home because every time I coughed I would shit my pants". Yeah. My mom's a classy bitch like that. In fact, my mom's ass has long been a future I've feared for myself. It's sort of a running joke in my family how my mom has no control of her bodily excretions. Like, she's at that age, ya know. That age where she pees her pants all the time. And sometimes she poops her pants. And it shouldn't be funny, but oh my, is it ever funny. I have to think it's funny because if I don't, I'll start to think about how it's probably my future too (this is a problem that has plagued many generations of the women in her family).

Anyway. I'm all off-track making fun of my poor mother's incontinence problems. My point is that there were plagues. Everyone was sick. I hope this doesn't set some sort of trend for Caitlyn's future birthday parties or I'm gonna have to insist that all the invited guests live in a plastic bubble for a few weeks leading up to the party. Plastic bubble. That sounds reasonable, right?

AAANYWAY.............

HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY CAITLYN!!!

I LOVE YOU AND WISH YOU MANY, MANY MORE!

Pics to come soon...