We’ve come home from a week in NYC feeling like a pair of wet cats. I think that the post-vacation blues are a common affliction, but this seems more pronounced than usual. We flew out last Friday, on what we thought was the tail end of Isaac’s stomach flu. However… it was more like the denouement. On the plane he was strangely fitful and at times displayed an unnerving mannerism that prompted me to lay eyes and even hands on the air sickness bag. We sat on the tarmac for a half hour or so as he fussed and tossed in my lap. As the flight went on he began to wail, “Wanna go hoooome! All done!” etc. But– lord be praised– no volcanic poop nor vomit on the plane. Nor in the cab!! Small mercies, or maybe large ones… That evening he again was oddly out of sorts. We took him out for a walk, but uncharacteristically he woke up crying while in the stroller. We took him home and soon his fussing reached a fever pitch. I had just decided that his ears were hurting him from the plane and was heading into the other room for Tylenol when he began to vomit in my arms. This was his/our first vomit experience and not one I care to repeat. The poor boy was so upset by the whole experience that he began to hyperventilate, while crying and vomiting at the same time, and to scream for his inhaler.
It was such an inauspicious start to the week. …
So many times in recent years we’ve gone to NYC (where I went to grad school and where Ben has a lot of family) and been booked up to our eyeballs. Our visits there seem to be frantic attempts to see everyone we should see and want to see, as well as do everything we should do and want to do. It’s cyclical. After such a grueling experience we are loath to return to do it again, and so we don’t go for months on end, and then when we go it’s like that all over because we come so rarely. But this time, would be different. We were going for a whole week, with basically nothing planned. Time! Wonderful luxurious time. We would linger in cafes, wander through museums. See friends, not once– but twice! Have downtime. Take it easy.
However, instead we spent the first three days pretty much IN the apartment with a very sick boy. He lived on breastmilk and popsicles exclusively for days on end (this started on Wednesday after all). I should add that we were staying in an incredibly beautiful, well-appointed, borrowed apartment all done in cream-butter-gold-maize sort of tones and filled with delicate and lovely objects. Under normal circumstances containing the enthusiasm of an active two-year-old would have been challenging in this environment. But one with stomach flu took it to the next level of anxiety. Since he would only eat popsicles, which are inherently lurid colors, we kept him trapped in one end of the galley kitchen much of the time. I spent it seems hours on my knees managing the popsicle-eating process. The vision of purple handprints on the upholstery had me in a cold sweat. But at least this was somewhat in my control. The thing I really dreaded was a purple vomit explosion. Didn’t happen– phew.
As the week went on, Isaac’s appetite came back and so did some of his energy. But then he made a lateral move from the stomach bug to upper respiratory. The next several nights we woke up every hour or so with him in a coughing fit. Then it would take a while to get him back to sleep, only to repeat the process again shortly. We were all quite exhausted by this regimen, especially coming on the heels of newborn-esque round-the-clock nursing and crying with the stomach thing.
Throughout this whole experience, I vacillated about his relationship with the breast. At times, when I was really worried about his dehydration and lack of nutrients, I praised heaven that he was still nursing. The wonderful, digestible, nutritious, antibody-filled breastmilk was the perfect thing for him to subsist on. Also nursing comforted him when nothing else would, and I was glad that we had it. I realized that if he was drinking a bottle or something else, he would still be waking us up constantly to be held or whatever it was that he needed. But, man, it was really tiring. And now that he’s well, he’s probably the least weaned 2-and-a-half-year-old that you will ever meet. This is depressing. We lost a lot of ground on both weaning and sleeping through the night.
In between all this we did manage to pull together some good outings late in the week. We went to the Natural History Museum where we saw not only many HUGE dinosaurs with BIG CLAWS and BIG TEETH, we saw a very STINKY SKUNK, which still is cracking us up today. (It was a diorama of a skunk doing basically a handstand while spraying, and Isaac couldn’t get enough of it.) On this topic he has developed a very precocious interest in farts. Isn’t this more a thing for the 7-year-old boy to appreciate?
I got to see a beautiful exhibit of Audubon paintings. Isaac got to throw coins in many pools and fountains throughout the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We got to see some of the people we wanted to see– not all, alas.
Now after a day of laundry and taxes I think we’re pretty recovered. Isaac slept well last night and seems to be feeling well this morning. In fact he’s climbing on my back right now, saying, “I want to get in the lap and nurse the whole time!”
The other day he told me some sad news. “Daddy don’t have breasts– [making a forlorn “all gone” gesture] — just penis.”