i deserve this cupcake

And I will tell you why.

I am currently hosting a sick Bean. A very sad Bean. A low energy Bean. A clingy Bean. A Bean much less Beanly than usual. It's far from fun.

In fact, I will go so far to say that it's the kind of thing that pushes a mother to look forward to a cupcake at the end of a long napless day.

But to be more specific, I deserve this cupcake because it's day five in Camp Sick. Day five of which I am running solo morning, noon, and night because Chip is working in Idaho this week.

And that's not it completely, either. I deserve this cupcake because I spent over an hour at the pharmacy yesterday afternoon picking up Bean's prescriptions. That's an hour over the expected in-and-out run that I was promised because the doctor's office called everything in--- an hour previously. I wasn't the only irritable parent there, either. In the time that the dozen of us stood in front of the pharmacy counter at Walgreen's, we formed a union, elected officers, and wrote our charter. We have grand plans to meet back there in a few weeks when our children are all sick. Again. (Probably from all the germs we passed back and forth massing in front of the Walgreen's pharmacy counter.) Have I mentioned that I did all of this with Bean in tow, since yes, I might have said: I'm the solo parent this week. The Bean was not impressed with my attempts to organize the parent union. She might have also tried to open several boxes of Alphabits cereal that were in the vicinity.

I deserve this cupcake because, before the pharmacy sit-in, I spent nearly two hours at the pediatrician's office. First the meeting with her doc, the justification for coming in (fever for several days, lots of coughing --WHY CAN'T YOU GIVE ME SOMETHING TO HELP THIS CHILD TO SLEEEEEEEEP--, and some alarming wheezing). Then the doc doing her thing with the listening and the peering into various child head holes (eyes, ears, nose, you know the drill). Then this: well, she has an ear infection and I'll give you an antibiotic for that--- but there's also some rasping and I think we should have a chest x-ray just to be sure.

Then it's down the hall of the clinic to visit the diagnostic center with yet more checking in and sitting around. At this point Bean was pulling everything out of the diaper bag that was even remotely off-limits and I'm all WHATEVER, IT'S FINE-- including my wallet, car keys, and driver's license.

As they lead us back to the x-ray room, the tech was telling me that she had a chair that they'd have Bean in for the x-ray. I was soon to learn that "chair" was an extremely loose term. Because, well, I want you to close your eyes and think about George Jetson's clear travel tube system. Then think of it much much smaller in diameter. Like, small enough that it would only barely fit a squirmy, terrified toddler. And then imagine that there's a little bit of a hole cut out of the tube to fit the toddler's (screaming) face. Or better yet - think of Augustus Gloop getting stuck inside Willy Wonka's chocolate transporting tube.

Or just picture this:

I really wish I was kidding.

This is not Bean. Some other kid that they jacked up on Benedryl in order to strap her into this device for the photo op. Look! No screaming!

THIS is what the tech wheeled out to me, motioning that I was going to simply put Alice inside. The thing. Put my baby inside that thing.

So I did. By this time I was wearing the lead-lined apron so I could stay with her during the procedure - and when they stuck Bean down the tube (her legs pinwheeling helplessly from the bottom), I stood there and held her fingertips. I tried to sing a song to help her to be more calm, but quite frankly I didn't know if I was going to fall down to the floor laughing or if I was just going to burst into tears. It was... awful. Terrible. Too horrific. And also one of the weirdest (and yes, funniest) things I've ever seen.

I can be terribly inappropriate with humor when I'm stressed.

So here's what I did as Bean cried huge crocodile tears, her face crumpled into itself, her fingers wiggling to try to grasp my hands tight enough to pull her out of the tube--- I giggled. And then I cried.

And then the techs were there, releasing Bean from her prison, putting her in my arms, and I told her how sorry I was. Really, truly.

After that madness, we headed back to the doc to find out that no, Bean does not have pneumonia--- but she's got a bad case of the wheezies (my words). They gave her a nebulilzer treatment at the office and then sent us home with one to use here.

I like to watch bits of the nebulized medicine collect on her upper lip fur.

So like I said, I deserve that cupcake. And I think I'm going to be eating one tomorrow, too.