I'm gonna open with this, so'n I don't skeer y'all away.
Can you see that enormous cranium?
Almost TWO whole inches bigger than any of my other kids' heads.
|that there was a 14.75" head upon birthin'|
Now. The things. The things that are not good but rather bad. Bad and wrong. Badong. The things I promised to tell you about yesterday.
Last Thursday, I realized that Mary had the chicken pox. If you'll consult your calendars, the smallest man-child was a mere 1 week old. And my two eldest girls were at performing arts camp. And my husband was at work.
So I hauled my 1 week postpartum self and my four youngest children, one of whom was one week old and one of whom had chicken pox and the oldest of whom is a 6 year old boy and the last of whom was (and still is) Cecilia, to the doctor's office. And then all of us back again. And then generally tried to do ALL THE THINGS the next day including baking cookies, doing laundry, setting up a huge mural sized piece of paper for the young ones to paint upon all whilst trying to soothe a newborn and a toddler with chicken pox.
Do you know what that resulted in?
Wait, some of you may want to skip this take, if you are especially queesy or don't like "body stuff."
Okay, so all of that foolishness resulted in actual bodily organs which should only ever be on the inside of my torso trying to exit out of my torso, not urgently thank God, in the same manner that the baby exited. Ahem.
So that was bad.
And I called my midwife and my husband, not the same people and not at the same time, and I was crying and trying to stay lying down and imagining all the horrible things that were going to happen once I was hospitalized and rushed into emergency surgery.
But I wasn't hospitalized because the prolapsing wasn't very severe and my midwife was able to manually put everything back into place. I KNOW. WHAT IS THIS? SOME KIND OF FREAKY SCI-FI MOVIE???
I was sternly reprimanded for thinking that one week was sufficient recovery time, was instructed to quit lifting anything that weighs more than the baby, and to try and not be on my feet as much as humanly possible. Purgatory, friends. That is my definition of purgatory. No. Me. Gusta. Because what about the ladies with the babies while working out in the fields who keep working? WHAT ABOUT THEM AND WHY AM I NOT LIKE THEM???
So fine. I will try to do all these things and everything will be fine. Fast forward to Wednesday of this week as I sit on the sofa nursing my baby feeling like I'm finally seeing the light at the end of the sit around at home tunnel and something on my rib cage starts to itch.
And I look down and I swear to you I almost started crying. Again with the crying. Because RASH. Weird rash that itches so badly. And then on my neck too. Lawdy lawdy.
It went from looking exactly like shingles at first (which resulted in yet another panicked telephone call, this time to our family practice doc) to spreading over my entire body in a matter of hours, down my arms, onto my hands, into my ears....everywhere.
Which is when Tommy and I were like "oh my gosh, what if it's not shingles and it's hives instead? Please let it be hives, sweetbabyjeezus!"
You know what's weird? Praying that your body is covered in hives. I mean think about that for a second. Perspective is weird, amiright?
Then I coated myself in calamine lotion, took a Benadryl, and prayed that I wouldn't wake up with my eyes swollen shut. And I didn't! The rash, as a matter of fact, was almost completely gone. It started flaring up again later that afternoon, but I got myself antihistamined real quick because ain't nobody got time fo' dat.
And there ends our tale of postpartum woe that has nothing at all to do with the sweet baby that is napping so peacefully, allowing me to finish word dumping all over you.
Now, we wouldn't want this entire thing to be about me whining, so let's have some of me ranting instead. Yes, let's.
Well, I'm just a barrel of monkeys today, aren't I? Go check in with Team Whitaker, hosting for Jen, for more sprightly, less creepy takes on the seven.