Those were the only thoughts running through my head as I laid on my hospital gurnee on Tuesday afternoon.

Well, that and, "I'm freezing! I need another blanket."

My mother always told me I had a flair for the dramatic.

The whole sordid ordeal began early Tuesday morning. Around 1am, I woke up with terrible leg cramps and stomach cramping. I managed to make it to the bathroom in time, but then spent the next three hours in there. Weirdly enough, I felt better by the time I climbed into bed at 4, and actually thought, "I think I can still make it to boot camp when the alarm goes off at 5:30." Fifteen minutes later, I was back in the bathroom and boot camp became a distant dream.

Around 8, I called in the baby-sitter. There was no way I could handle a toddler in my present condition. Scotty thought it was hilarious that I was lying on the couch and took every opportunity to crawl on top of me, and then jump on my side. I didn't have the strength to battle him, so I called in reinforcement. Thankfully, our regular sitter Sierra was available and came quickly.

I perked up a bit around 10am and chalked up my illness to something not agreeing with me from last night. But when I woke up again around noon, something was seriously off. I couldn't stand up, I had broken out into a cold sweat, and every beverage on the night stand - water, Gatorade, ginger ale, and Coca-Cola - produced dry heaves. As I stood awkwardly near the sink, brushing my teeth, the whole world went white. I managed to crawl back to bed, cried hysterically for Sierra (who at that point had gone from nanny to nurse) and asked her what I should do. Nothing freaks me out more than passing out. We stood (well, I laid there), looking at each other helplessly, and she said she would call 911. The only thought that registered in my foggy brain was that ambulances are expensive (Scotty's little voyage on Day 8 of his young life cost us $1200) and no, the last thing I need is to have the neighbors see me carted out of my house on a gurnee. So she ran to grab a cold wash cloth, I tried to drink some Coke (since blacking out is always correlated with low blood sugar in my life - I guess that's what happens when you grow up with a parent who is a serious diabetic), and just laid there and cried. Pathetic, I know.

After two hours of just laying there, debating my odds, I finally called it. I must have meningitis. Or this is the SuperFlu that is going to destroy the planet because of our overuse of antibiotics. Or appendicitis. Or something else that ends in "itis." Too bad my iPhone was too far away or I would have googled WebMd.

With Brian on his way home, Sierra drove me to the ER. I limped through the doors, like the walking dead, clutching only my wallet, phone, and Chapstick. I figured if the world was ending, those are the three things I most need. The triage staff took one look at me and asked me what I had eaten the night before. I'll admit, I had some questionable blueberries. They kind of shook their heads and escorted me to Room 4.

This meat locker of a room could not have been more than 55 degrees. In nothing but a very thin hospital gown, I related the last three days of my life to the nurse on duty. His working hypothesis: the race on Saturday left me slightly dehydrated. Something (those berries?) caused a rather unpleasant, unexpected reaction in my system, which made  me lose a great deal of fluids, leaving me dehydrated, weak, and dizzy.

Treatment? Two bags of fluids, anti-nausea meds (mmm, Zofran, my old friend), and Lomitol. I took some pictures because I was bored.

And I have to tell you, by the second bag of juice, I felt myself perking up.

Within three hours, I limped out of the ER a little faster than how I came in. Brian and Scotty were there to pick me up, and I promptly went to bed as soon as we got home. This morning, I feel about 80% and am continuing the fluids.

And avoiding the berries.

Yup, you read that correctly.

I thought it made for a splashy little headline.

As anyone with a two-year old will attest, your main goal is to civilize the child by the time they enter school. No throwing stuff, no swearing/punching/biting/screaming, and above all, please go pee-pee in the potty.

I'm happy to report that while the Bear still chucks cars all over the house and swears like a sailor, at least we can check one thing off our list. This is how we did it:

1.) Recognize there are levels of potty-training
This is something I did not think about pre-potty-training. No kid is going to pull down his pants, go on the big boy potty, wipe himself, pull up his pants, wash his hands, and go on his merry way under the age of three. I have no idea when this happens, but it's not obtainable now. We are looking for obtainable change, based on our child's level of functioning, not perfection. The whole thing is a process.

So based on my experience, I came up with this:

Level 1: Ability to go sit on the potty and go pee and poo when prompted by an adult.

(the first time this actually happens, you and your spouse will likely be reduced to tears of joy. We were.)

Level 2: Ability to acknowledge they need to use the potty and are able to hold it (including naptime and bedtime)

Level 3: Ability to go pee and poo on the big potty (and acknowledge when they need to go and ask an adult for help). This includes using the restroom when out of the house.

Level 4: Ability to pull down one's pants, use the restroom, flush, wash hands, and pull up pants, all on his/her own.

Level 5: Cleans the bathroom, including wiping down mirrors, scrubbing the toilet, and emptying the trash

Based on my levels, Brian is only Level 4 potty-trained. (haha).

Anyways, our three-day method worked like a charm but it only gets you to Level 2/3. To reach Level 4, we just need time, opportunity, and patience. (and the occasional change of clothing.)

2.) Read this article - read the whole thing!

http://www.babycenter.com/0_potty-training-in-three-days-or-less_10310078.bc

I love Baby Center.

I don't necessarily agree with everything in the article - like watching your naked kid run around for weeks - but it is a great basis for starting.

Go big or go home, folks. Look at the signs of readiness, set a date to start training, and then go for it. I think there is nothing more confusing to a kid than going back and forth between diapers and underwear. As a parent, however, there is nothing more terrifying than going out with a kid in underwear. I literally had to talk myself down, saying "There is nothing wrong if he has an accident. I have a change of clothing with me, and it's nothing but a hiccup. This is nothing to freak out about." And it helped me cope with the big changes going on with the Bear. I could only imagine how the Bear felt (poor kid.)

3.) Think like a drug dealer

I'm not kidding.

Think of it this way: what's your child motivation for going in the potty? I can tell you, I've yet to meet the two-year old that is conscious of social etiquette and personal hygiene. These are not driving forces behind the behavior of a toddler. Toddlers are motivated and attracted to certain things, and I'm guessing that since you know your kid, you know exactly what his or her motivation is. For ours? One word:

CARS.

So borrowing a page out of the playbook of a friend (Kori Z!), we listened very carefully to her description of "the prize table" - i.e. a table or counter space in the home dedicated to super-awesome-amazing prizes that are awarded to anyone who goes pee or poo on the potty. Our table magically appeared on the morning the training began and included Matchbox cars, big trucks, M&Ms, marshmallows, stickers and gold stars. Scotty was allowed to see everything on the prize table but in order to touch the prizes or actually get a prize, he needed to use the potty.

This, combined with the Baby Center article, was like found money for us. It was like stealing. Or selling drugs. Give 'em a taste - and they'll keep coming back for more.

By the second day of potty-training, I'm 100% sure that Scotty was totally mocking us. He didn't have a single accident that day because he was damned sure he was going to get a truck/car/bus or M&M. I had bought a four pound bag of M&Ms from Costco, and the mere sight of that brown bag was too much for him to bear. He. Must. Get. M&Ms. And all he had to do was go pee on the potty? Easy-peasy.

And a potty-trained child was born. It's been 14 days without an accident, and the kid is dry at naptime and bedtime. He's made potty at stores, restaurants, and parks.

It's truly a potty-training miracle.

Someone please go knock on wood for us.

4.) Miscellaneous Tips and Suggestions

Now that we're in the thick of this process, these are my suggestions for those of you about to embark on it:

a.) Let the child pick out the prizes for the prize table. We blew our budget at Target buying trucks, cars, and stickers. But I didn't care - if Scotty wanted it, he got it. We ended up with about 15 cars and a whole bunch of stickers and candy. The kid was so stinkin' excited about getting his prizes that even now, when he gets a new truck, he asks me, "Prize table?"

b.) Skip Pull-ups completely. These things look and feel like diapers. Very confusing. Best advice I got was to skip them completely - and I'm glad we did. It just prolongs the whole process.

c.) Let the kid feel wet.  Slightly startling, yes. Important? Totally. Does it mean more laundry for you? YES. But at least we're not beating clothing against a rock in a river, right?  I mean, it's just a few extra loads.

The day we started, we put Scotty down for his nap in underwear. He was not happy. But he did fall asleep - and he did wake up wet. And we took him over to the potty, sat him down, let him go pee in there, and then promptly changed all of his sheets and blankets. No big deal. And that was the last time he woke up wet. It's easier, yes, to put him down in a diaper or something absorbent, but he'll never learn if he can't feel the wetness. However...

d.) Acknowledge that night time is REALLY scary. Thankfully, we've never had an issue with Scotty sleeping through the night. He's now in his big-boy bed and he remains with his head on his pillow, under his blankie, the whole night. We were going to put him in underwear for night time right from the start, but both Brian and I chickened out. We REALLY like our own sleep, and the thought of having a night-waking child was too much for us. Plus, we have about 10 more diapers to use up. So, we put him in a diaper for now, but I'm happy to say, it's totally dry in the morning. And Mom and Dad have had a good night's sleep so we're not insanely cranky. In ten days, though, when our diaper supply is up...well, you might have a very angry blogger on your hands. Just be forewarned.

e.) You may want to do this on the sly. Brian and I were both incredibly stressed out by this whole process; it may sound easy now, but it's a lot for parents to take on. Honestly, it felt a little like having a newborn again: the constant communication with the spouse, taking turns watching the child, staying home a lot. We were exhausted - but happy - after the three days.

So instead of broadcasting the news to our friends and families, we chose to keep it within out little triad (for the most part) until we had good news to share. I know your aunt/mom/neighbor's cousin's brother's uncle has an awesome way of potty-training a toddler, but for now, we're going to go with our own plan. And if it was a major bust, we were going to (quietly) try again in six weeks. And no one was the wiser.

                                    ***********************************

And with that, I'm very happy to report we have a Level 3 potty-er on our hands. All of the prizes are gone - they were snatched up within a few days - and Scotty has even forgotten that he gets M&Ms after each successful trip to the potty. He's just happy to not be in diapers anymore.

And so are we.

Thoughts? Questions? Angry comments? Let me know - email me at [email protected] and I'll respond.

Okay, I want anyone reading this right now that is pregnant or thinking about becoming pregnant to stop reading. Like, right now. Just stop. I want you to pick up the phone, call your health care insurance, and double whatever existing coverage you may have. Yes, you may pay more out-of-pocket now, but in the future, you will save. Because once you pop that little tyke out and he/she hits the age of 2, you will find yourself a frequent visitor in various doctor's offices. Doctors you didn't even know existed, you will one day be in their waiting rooms. Trust me on this.

Deana, my friend with 2-year old twins, briefly considering asking the ER staff for a punch card ("10th visit free!") after all of the trips she had in January with her boys.

It's insane. But sadly, it comes with the territory.

EarGate 2012, like most -Gates, started out like any other Thursday. We went to music lessons. We came home. I took Scotty's shoes off. As I removed one shoe, a tiny pebble rolled out. "Rock!' Scotty proclaimed happily. He picked up the little object and ran to put in in the bed of one of his trucks.

This is an everyday situation in our house - the rocks, that is. Scotty is a little dirt magnet and adores playing in dirt. It must be that Y chromosome or something, but he spends hours in the backyard in the flower beds, gently scooping piles of dirt into his cars, and then carefully transporting it to the other side of the yard.  He's working on some kind of project, but I have no idea what it is.  We have huge holes in our beds, but I'm not bothered. The kid is amused, he's playing quietly by himself, which means Mommy can lounge outside with the iPad and a cup of coffee. Win-win.

So yesterday Scotty scampered off with his new treasure and I went to the closet to put his shoes away. When I came back, I didn't see the rock. And he was holding his earlobe.

"Rock ear, Momb!" he declared.

"What?" I asked, peering in closer.

"Rock EAR!" he shouted.

I frowned. Now what? I didn't want to suggest to him that the rock could go in his ear, or now I'm giving him ideas. But what if he did put the rock in his ear? Then what?

"Scotty," I started slowly. "Did you put the rock in your ear?"

He grinned at me. "Yes," he stated emphatically.

Okay, let's try that again. "Scott, Mommy needs to know if you put the teeny-tiny rock in your ear. Did you, sweetie? Did you put the rock in your ear?"

He looked at me again with confusion. "Yes," he stated firmly, and then made a beeline out of the room. I think he was sick of me asking redundant questions.

And so, just like in any condundrum in Motherhood, I was left with, "Now what?" I really, really didn't want to take action. I was tired. My legs hurt from boot camp. I didn't want to call Dr. Awesome, who has only been lukewarm lately (in my opinion) and schedule an appointment so we could sit in her germy waiting room and catch our 400th cold of the season. But I also couldn't leave my kid with a rock in his ear - what would that affect? Hearing? Brain development? Possible infection? Is this an emergency situation? Could it wait until after nap time? What are my options?

First, I assessed the boy. He did not appear to be in any obvious discomfort. He was hearing and responding to me just fine. When I put lunch on the table, he ate like a mountain man. (growth spurt). When I shined the flashlight in his ear as he chomped away, I didn't see anything, but then again, he has tiny, tiny ears. I actually brought a pair of tweezers down from the bathroom and thought about going in, all "Operation"-style until my brain kicked and I realized - oh yeah, this isn't a game, no buzzer will go off, and I will likely do more harm than good.

So as I sat there, watching him mow through his strawberries and yogurt, it hit me: call a friend. Better than that - call a friend who is an audiologist.

Enter Courtney.

You all might remember Courtney, mom to Carson and Sam (Scotty's on-again, off-again girlfriend). Aside from understanding the unique challenges of Toddlerville, she is like an ear expert.

One quick phone call and we had a plan. She was going to look for her otoscope at home and then make a house call. If she couldn't find it, she would send me to her co-worker later that afternoon. Worst case scenario, we could drive to the hospital she works at and she could use the equipment there to determine if indeed, there was a rock in my kid's ear. If there was, an ENT was available to remove it immediately, and we have successfully resolved the situation. Game over. Winner: Momb.

And in the end, that what we ended up doing. All of this, mind you, was to avoid Dr. Awesome and her waiting room of disease. And the giant co-pay. I'm not sure what's going on with our insurance, but we came out of pocket close to $600 in the month of December in co-pays alone. We just received a $511 bill for the stomach bug that sent us to the ER last summer, and quite frankly, I'm concerned about health care in this country. I would prefer to not spend every dollar we have on co-pays and outrageous deductibles, so yes, I'm very happy to have an audiologist friend.

Courtney saw us right away this morning and within a few minutes, she declared that there was no rock in his right ear. We looked at each other for a second, and then said simultaneously, "Let's check the other ear, too." (Ahh, Motherhood. Never assume anything.) That ear, too, was clear and EarGate 2012 officially ended 23 hours after it started. Total cost to us: $0.

Courtney and I did what any good friends do in this situation: we turned it into a photo shoot. So with Scotty still in the bomb-shelter hearing cage, we took pictures of each other and the Bear doing various audiology-related poses.

It's good to have friends in high places.

And while Scotty doesn't have any rocks in his head, I'm happy to report that Courtney doesn't either. He checked.

Thank you, Courtney!!!!

I happened upon this article on Tuesday night. :

_
Coincidentally, this was also the day Scotty and I embarked on our trifecta of errand running, in an effort to escape the cleaners. While at Target, I ran into someone from my running team, and she described the events in the article almost word-for-word.

The part about "compression kills" gave me chills.

The group that ran this marathon is so stinkin' lucky no one died. This whole thing could have been a massive, massive disaster.

Needless to say, I will never be running another Rock'n'Roll marathon again.

BIG thanks to Stesha (and her amazing technical skills) for showing me how to make links clicky! This is a a great day, indeed.

Dear Log,

Today is Day 6 of the Sickness. I fear there is no end in sight.

The boy appears to be getting better, but we certainly take one step forward and two steps back. He managed to go all of Wednesday without a fever but without a nap. This does not bode well for my mental health. When your toddler wakes up screaming after fifteen minutes of nap time and you haven't even had a chance to plug the baby monitor in, you know you're headed for a long afternoon.

But not as long of an afternoon as Tuesday. Nap schedule was the same - 15 minutes down, woke up screaming (due to coughing) and since the cleaners were over, we literally found ourselves man (and Mom) without a country. While I'm really happy the ladies did a solid job scrubbing every surface of my home with bleach (including cleaning my coffee pot...?), it's very difficult to entertain a sick toddler when you cannot go to a.) friends' houses  b.) indoor play places and c.) the playground out of fear of becoming a social pariah. So we completed the trifecta of errands (Costco, grocery store, Target) and then had a late dinner out. Imagine my surprise when we returned and the cleaners were still there!  I'm not sure if I should be pleased with their effort or offended at how dirty they found my home. Regardless, it's lovely to be able to see your reflection in the bathroom mirror again.

The Sickness has turned the boy into a Level 5 Clinger. While I'm enjoying all of the snuggling, I've also been rendered useless on the home front. This includes cooking meals, washing dishes, bathing. I know the boy doesn't feel good and nothing feels better than sitting squarely on Momma's hip while watching Super Why! for the 12,000 time that day, but I need to be able to complete certain activities. Like brushing my teeth. Short of strapping the child to my body via duct tape, I plan to research "Toddler Bjorns"...just as soon as I'm able to sit at the computer...alone.

And after the past five days, I'm certain that while healthy toddlers regularly mimic drunk people (incoherent speech, stumbling, excessive displays of emotion), sick toddlers most resemble crackheads coming down from a bad trip. At one point yesterday, Scotty vacillated between throwing books at my face to suddenly being mesmerized with my nose, gently touching it and attempting to lick it while murmuring, "Looooove Moooooom." He is a wild card when ill, and this lack of predictability is starting to wear on me.

Speaking of drug use, watching your child use a nebulizer feels like you are watching them use a hookah. It's very Lost-esque flash forward-y, like I'm being given a glance of my toddler in college one day. I'm not sure if I'm proud or horrified with how easily Scotty puts the nebulizer hose in his mouth and inhales deeply. Once again, I find myself asking, "Am I just a really good mom or is my kid going to smoke a lot of um, things one day?" Needless to say, I've tried to weave in an anti-drug message to the little tyke many times in recent days, in the form of, "Who's ready for dinner? Don't use drugs!" and "Time for bubble tub...don't do drugs!" Let's hope it sinks in.

Likewise, I fear I may have lost my husband to the dark recesses of the legal world. Despite the many important-sounding phone calls he takes at night and mountains of paperwork he schelps back and forth to his car every morning, I secretly believe he is actually working on nothing at all. I believe that the stress of the Sickness has driven him to escape to the quiet, clean solitude that is his office. If I find out "arbitration" is Latin for "afternoon tee time," I will likely kill him this weekend.

And so, here I sit. Praying the Sickness goes away soon and the boy returns to his normal Bear self. Wishing the 4am breathing treatment ends on Friday or I may likely lose my mind. And hoping that the horrible antibiotic shot the Bear was forced to endure today - the one where he screamed for 30 minutes straight and caused a medical assistant to panic and run out of the room - works quickly.

Because I'm not sure how much longer my household can stand this.

Until next time, Log.

Kim

Editor's note: I wrote this entry last night around 9pm. I'm happy to report Scotty slept the whole night with only one waking (around 12:30). We fed him some crackers, nebulized him, and today, he woke up a new boy. I'm hoping we've turned a corner.

On October 1, 2011, the world welcomed Ulysses Samuel Abrahms into the world. At six pounds, fifteen ounces, and twenty inches long, Uly was born at 39 weeks and is anything but ordinary.

First, his initials are USA. Yes, that is intentional. Adam and Tiffany, proud parents and our dear friends (you may remember the wedding Brian and I were both in last summer in Southern California? Yup, same couple) and self-proclaimed right-wing political enthusiasts, feel very strongly about their patriotism. Their wedding was red, white and blue. Their bulldog, Teddy, is named after Theodore Roosevelt. When they found out they were having a boy, the obvious name choice was Ulysses, per Adam, despite Brian's repeated protests that he was going to call the baby Sam. And my favorite part? When I asked Tiffany if the nursery was going to be red, white and blue, she looked at me like I was crazy and said very seriously, "What? No way. It's light brown and blue."

Oh. My bad.

Aside from his very unique moniker, Baby Uly is unique in other ways: he came into this world with his liver outside his body. Adam and Tiffany underwent the ultrasound every pregnant couple fears - the quiet technician. They found out at 20 weeks that their little warrior drew the one in over 10,000 chance of having an omphalocele, a condition where one or many of the internal organs grow in a sac outside the body. The good news? The liver was safely contained in the omphalocele. The bad news? The condition is most often seen in conjunction with other abnormalities, almost all of which are fatal.

Now processing what I just wrote, it's essentially every new parent's nightmare. A genetic abnormality. More tests. More doctors. Lots of appointments, and lots and lots of test results to endure. I'm not sure how Adam and Tiffany managed to weather the storm of pregnancy, but they did, and with each test, they continued to get better news. There were no other genetic abnormalities noted. All chromosomal testing came back healthy. They met with a surgeon who did the exact same kind of surgery he would do on their baby on two other cases, and both children are healthy and functioning normally.

And armed with that information, Adam, Tiffany and Alex welcomed their little warrior last Saturday into the world with open arms. His condition was better than expected, and he was taken into surgery the same day he was born. With the liver tucked safely back into place, now it's just a waiting game. When I spoke with Tiffany last Saturday, she sounded tired but upbeat, and I find that remarkable. I feel as though Scotty's 4-day-3-night NICU stay is forever burned into my brain, and here is she is, coping, laughing, and finding the positive in the situation. Truly amazing, and downright inspirational.

The healing process is a long one, both for her and for Uly, but I couldn't help but note that this kid has an amazing set of parents. They are strong. They are opinionated (yes, their opinions tend to differ quite a bit from my own, but they are professional enough to never get personal.). They love their child and are willing to do anything to make his life better. And so while he drew an unlucky straw with the omphalocele, he's a lucky boy, indeed.

If you have a moment, take time to think about little Baby Uly and send him some good thoughts and prayers. Tiffany has joined the blogging world (yay!!) and you can read more about his story at http://teamabrahmsusa.blogspot.com.

Love you, Adam, Tiff, Alex, and Uly! The Bear can't wait to meet his new buddy one day, even if they are rooting for different football teams.

Editor's note: The review of this week's True Blood is being interrupted to bring you breaking news on a stomach virus that has attacked the Bear. The review will be posted tomorrow, pending no additional vomiting.

I hate puke.

As in, really hate it. It's my least favorite thing out of everything the body manufactures. I can handle urine, poop, boogers, sweat - hell, I practically bathed in breast milk for a  year. I'd even take blood (small amounts, please) over vomit. Because the only thing puke does to me is make me want to, well, puke.

::shudder::

Remember how I mentioned I was sick on the Fourth of July? Yeah, blowing chunks of spare ribs out of your nose will definitely turn you off to that food group in the future. Brian got sick on Wednesday, and then all was quiet in our little family of three. I really thought (stupidly) that Scotty had escaped the grips of this virus.

And then yesterday, I was reminded Motherhood is all about perspective.

I got home from the gym about 1:30. Brian and I promptly high-fived, and he headed out the door. I begrudgingly set about cleaning the bathrooms when I heard Scotty start screaming upstairs at 1:45. That was a super short nap, I thought, and tried to contain my irritation as I pulled off my rubber gloves. I can't even find the time to scrub a toilet...grr...

And when I walked in his room, the sour stench of vomit practically made me keel over. His blankets, his animals...everything, including himself, were coated in pink, chunky goo. He was wailing sad, sad tears. It was like his whole crib had been slimed.

Not sure what to do, I wadded all of the blankets into the hamper and set about picking chunks out of Scotty's hair. Finally giving in that a.) I was stinky from the gym and b.) my baby was covered in vomit, I threw him in the shower and jumped in, too. He hated the water. Absolutely hated it. But at least the pink was coming out of his hair and I was not a sweaty mess anymore.

I gave him some crackers and water and settled in for a little Bob the Builder action. (yes we can!) On the DVD was an additional video of a British cartoon called Fireman Sam, and by the fourth viewing (as the Bear sat silently in my lap), I realized that Fireman Sam was actually kind of cute. On the fifth viewing, I found myself looking at his hand for a wedding ring (never mind that I myself am married and he doesn't really exist.) On the sixth viewing, Scotty hurled crackers and water all over the couch, the carpet, and me.

I turned off Fireman Sam and totally panicked.

The Bear kept puking. All over. The bathroom, in the waste basket, in his hair, on the towel. All pink, all super, super smelly.

Brian arrived home from the gym and I called Scotty's ped. She was just leaving her office and referred us to the nearest ER. With his fifth shirt on for the day (the first four were piled in a disgusting pile in the laundry room), we headed out the door. I tried in vain to get Scotty to puke into a bucket as Brian drove, but he turned his head at the last minute and hit me and most of his car seat. And himself, of course.

So remember what I was saying about perspective? My grumpiness about cleaning a bathroom quickly evaporated as a I carried my vomit-covered child into the local hospital, but not before he managed to press his puke-stained shirt directly into my shoulder and face, ensuring the most amount of chunk-age could stick to me. Did I mention it was 105 degrees yesterday?

See? All about perspective. Those bathrooms don't look so bad now, huh?

Scotty put on a total show for the ER staff. After howling like a wolverine when his vitals were checked, he calmed down and turned into a little ham. He coo'd at the doctor, said hi to everyone walking by, and acted like he had never puked a day in his life. I bet the hospital staff thought we were neurotic parents freaked out by a little upchuck. I'm not saying I was hoping Scotty would puke while we were at the hospital, but it certainly would have verified our claims.

So we walked out, nary a prescription in hand, and watched as the kid heaved his little guts out in the car ride home. Gallons of puke, let me tell you. All over him, all over the car seat. And all while sniffling and crying, like, "Momb! Make it stop." We stripped him naked and draped towels all over the house as Brian and I tackled the mountain of pukey stuff in front of us. As Scotty rolled naked on the carpet, Brian stood over him and said quietly, "You know we really love you, right? Because this is really gross."

Right now, we are 19+ hours with no additional vomiting. He's keeping down some crackers, a banana, and 2 oz of applesauce. When I put him down for his nap, he felt warm, so maybe his body is fighting this virus off. All I know is I have more laundry to do and some serious scrubbing ahead of me. Fun times.

Best of luck to all of our SoCal neighbors this weekend.

(Warning! SERIOUSLY controversial post ahead. Proceed at your own risk.)

Sunday night was a strange night for us. I might even be so bold as to say it was a weird night for most of America.

I'm talking about, of course, the news that the US military found and killed Osama Bin Laden. I hadn't heard or thought of that name in quite some time and it brought back all kinds of old feelings, stuff that I hadn't felt or thought about in a long time.

Like the rest of you, I remember where I was on 9/11. I was just a wee grad student in Indiana at the time. It would be four months until I moved to Las Vegas, five months until I met Brian, and almost eight years until the birth of the Bear. Most notably, my hair was still red and my nails had never seen a professional polish. (Oh, to be so young.)

I think we'd all agree that as a nation, the sights and sounds of that day are seared in our collective conscious. I didn't know anyone personally who died in the attacks; I didn't have any personal connections to servicemen and women who were subsequently sent overseas. I watched the news religiously, gave blood several times, and just hoped fervently that our nation would get through this terrible time. 

9/11 melted into the war in Afghanistan, which turned into the search for weapons of mass destruction, which then somehow morphed into the search for Saddam Hussein...I'm certainly no expert on foreign policy or even recent US history, so I'm going to refrain from commentary, but I will say this: the death of Osama bin Laden didn't make me happy. I did not feel any joy.

Relief, maybe. Surprise, definitely. But joy? Not at all.

As Brian and I sat watching the breaking news, I kept repeating, "This is big." (Thank you, Kim Obvious.) The heroism and bravery of that team of Seals needs commendation, as does all of the military who has worked tirelessly to restore order in the Middle East. But the nagging feeling of why I wasn't jubilant over bin Laden's death bugged me. I mean, there were crowds gathering in front of the White House, spontaneously breaking into song. What was wrong with me?

I told Brian, "I guess I must not be very patriotic," but that wasn't right. I love the US. The fourth of July is one of my favorite holidays.

I just felt...weird. 

Not to mention, that 2007 movie, "The Kingdom" with Jaime Foxx and Jennifer Garner kept rattling through my brain. For those of you who haven't seen it, a team of government agents is sent out to investigate the bombing of an American building in the Middle East. Through the course of the movie, there's lots of bloodshed on each side. When a US agent is killed, Jennifer Garner is sad about it until Jamie Foxx whispers something in her ear. You don't find out what he whispered until the end of the movie (::spoiler alert!::) when the same thing happens on the other side, and Middle Eastern people are killed. A dad whispers to his son the very same thing that Jamie said to Jennifer:

"Don't worry. We'll kill them all."

Yeah...kind of unsettling.

I was finally able to pull together my emotional reaction on Monday when I saw a quote on Facebook. The first sentence was written by a 24-year old English teacher in PA and the rest is Dr. King. I feel like this summed up my emotional landscape pretty well:

I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.

My very smart and very wise friend Jill had published it on her page. And then, like a stroke of pure luck, another very smart and very wise friend Leah published a link to an article on Psychology Today titled, "The Psychology of Revenge: Why We Should Stop Celebrating bin Laden's Death." Interestingly, both are clinical psychologists.

Whew. It's always such a relief when others echo your own feelings, but more eloquently than you ever could.

So I read this article and a few others as well.  And through an ethical, moral, religious (eek!) and psychological lens, I was finally able to formulate this thought:

Who are we to celebrate the death of another human? Doesn't that make us just as wrong as the guy we just killed?

Don't get me wrong; bin Laden was a mass murderer. He was a sociopath through and through. He was absolutely the personification of evil on this earth, if you believe in good and evil. I truly feel the world is a better place with him not in it. And though one part of my brain worries that his death will martyr him to his followers (which actually makes us more unsafe than when he was living), the other part of my brain is saying, "We need to rise above this. Sinking to the same level as our enemies simply means they are in good company." A more appropriate reaction?  Somber reflection, perhaps. Quiet retrospection. I mean, the celebrators outside the White House were college-aged kids (which means they were 8-and 9-year old kids at the time of 9/11) doing cheerleading moves. I am pretty sure I saw a girl do a herkie in the crowd. They looked more like students trying to blow off some pre-finals steam than countrymen or patriots. Yet these are the images that are being projected back to the folks in the Middle East, the same people that are so intent on hating Americans. 

Probably not the image we wanted to convey.

I hope that everyone who lost a loved one to the War on Terror finds some sense of closure with the death of bin Laden. I hope his death causes confusion and disorganization within terrorist cells. I hope his death signals the beginning of a new chapter in this war, one that finds the tides turning in favor of democracy, peace and justice for all. But I hope, too, that we realize celebrating another human being's death only makes us sink to the level of the very people we have declared to be "the bad guys." 

After all of that, I finally came to the conclusion that I don't think I'm anti-American...I think I'm just pro-human.

Damn you, American Association of Pediatrics.

Just when we thought it was safe to take the toddler out for a drive, you issue new safety recommendations for car seats.

It seems like this new info has set parents all up in a tizzy and unsure how to proceed. Before you trek out to the garage to wrestle with the seat, let's look at the facts.

Per the official press release from AAP, parents are encouraged to keep their toddler rear-facing until the age of two, or until the child reaches the weight or height max for their particular car seat. There were also some guidelines for older kids, such as staying in a booster seat until they are four feet, nine inches tall, and are between the ages of eight and twelve. Kids are to remain in the back seat until the age of 13.

Which is good, because in just three years, those same kids are going to be driving the vehicle independently.

Ack. Let's not think about that.

A 2007 study in Injury Prevention found children are essentially safer when they are rear-facing. Children under the age of two are 75% less likely to die or sustain serious injury in the event of a crash when rear-facing. The reason is because the head, neck, and spine are better supported in the rear-facing position. Although the child's legs may be squished (a professional term, no doubt), leg injuries are preferable to spinal injuries.

Based on everything I've read, this recommendation appears to be built around the size of each individual child and the particular car seat model being used.  While smaller children will benefit from remaining rear-facing longer, other children will reach the weight/height max of their seat before the age of two.  Therefore, if the child exceeds the max of the rear-facing weight requirement, the parent has two options: purchase a new car seat with a greater rear-facing weight max, or turn the child forward-facing.

Scotty is right in the wheel house of this group. He's a big boy.

Oof, my aching back.

We have the Britax Marathon, which has a rear-facing weight max of 35 pounds. The Bear, per the scale this morning (which he stood on so nicely! What a good boy), weighed him in at a whooping 32 lbs, 6 oz. We are exactly two and a half pounds away from the weight max.

If I had a child that was significantly below the weight max for the car seat (say, 21 lbs on a 35 lb seat max), I would definitely turn the seat around. I'd give the child a good 5 days to acclimate to the new position, and try to keep car trips in the early days as short and quick as possible. But - if they were a little bigger, a little older, and more savvy (read: opinionated), AND they screamed bloody murder for those five days, I would probably consider turning it back around to forward-facing. Because at this point, what's worse: a child in a forward-facing car seat or a distracted, flustered driver who cannot concentrate because of the ruckus in the back seat?

I hate these kinds of questions. This is what makes Parenthood so tough. There are no clear answers.

I think it's about common sense here. I say this after I received a phone call from a good friend last night at 9pm. (Sorry friend...I'm outing you.) She was pretty upset about the new recommendations (which, FYI, are just that: recommendations. It is not law. And AAP are the same group who recommended women breastfeed for one year. A lot of women didn't follow that rec, and everything turned out just fine. None of our toddlers are serial killers.) My friend said she had just sent her husband out to the driveway to switch the seats around and per my dear friend, this news was so upsetting she was (jokingly, I think) considering going on Xanax.

Okay, this is where I draw the line.

Because driving while on a controlled substance, whether obtained through prescription or not, is FAR more dangerous than having your children rear v. forward facing. And so it texting while driving. Hell, so is talking on your cell phone (something I am very, very guilty of).

So let's take these new recommendations with a healthy dose of common sense and 1.) BREATHE and 2.) look at everything that is contributing to the chance of being in a crash. Don't drive under the influence. Don't text while driving. Don't talk on your cell phone. Don't pass your child graham crackers and bop-bops in an effort to keep him busy. (whoops...) Let's turn driving back into just that: driving, and not some multi-tasking expedition that also happens to involve getting from one place to another.

Also...I can't help but mention this...if you do turn the seat around, make sure it's installed correctly. I don't remember the official stats off the top of my head, but the majority of injuries to children in car seats were a result of improperly installed car seats. And now, thanks to the AAP, last night millions of dads were just cajoled into turning the seat around at 8pm at night by a near-hysterical mom, in the dark, after a long day at the office, and lord knows there are lots of buckles and straps and clicks to hook on properly.

::whew::

Whatever you choose, just make it right for your family.

Thoughts? Comments? Feedback? I'd love to hear your opinion.