Norwegian Frost

I'm sure I'm not the only one who does this, but whenever I go to a concert or show I always have in mind what I will play on the guitar if I happen to get invited onstage. Naturally, when I have a chance to go to the White House, I also plan what I want to wear for our press photo when Obama invites me in to the Oval Office to discuss foreign policy.

I remembered that during the early days of the election, CNN did a story about how Obama and Ahmadinejad both liked to wear suits without ties, so I figured I could also pull off the collar-no-tie look without offending anyone. I also remembered seeing a story about people getting in a twist over the fact that some lacrosse players wore flip-flops when visiting Bush, so I nixed my casual shoes. Finally, I read a few articles about how Obama had done away with the strict dress code among his staff, so I figured he wouldn't mind if I gussied myself up with a nice, hand-knit sweater.

I basically settled on wearing the Chilean school uniform.

I should back up a little, because it took us about two and a half hours of waiting before getting to the point where we could snap that picture.

We waited.

And walked.

And waited.

And got through one layer of security.

And then waited some more.

But all the waiting, and attire planning, were worth it when Barack, Michelle, Malia and Sasha came to greet the people waiting in line! We were right next to them, and the man was wearing jeans!

Ok, ok -- sadly, the Obama's did not actually make an appearance, and all of my foreign policy suggestions will have to go via letter.

We did at least get to participate in the traditional easter egg roll.

And Megan's best friends from TV were there.

I found the swing set, but couldn't find the garden.

And of course Kim took tons of pictures with the presidential backdrop.

We ended the day completely beat (except for Henry, who had taken a nap during our long wait in line.)

Did I mention that I was working on a nice fat case of strep throat all day, and when we got home I spent the rest of the afternoon in bed? That's right -- it may be early in the 09 season, but I'm pretty sure you can go ahead and just give me the Father-of-the-Year award right now...

As I sit here in a pathetically diminished state, blood pounding in my ears, the light of day blinding my red-rimmed eyes, synapses firing so slowly that this sentence takes forever to write, I think it's important to document my experiences over the last 24 hours. This is what it is like to be a parent.

Yesterday I had one of those mornings where I was irritable and feeling crummy, without really paying attention as to why. When I missed yet another turn during our attempt to get to a consignment sale at a local middle school, my inner diagnostic system finally got the message through to me -- "you're not feeling well."

Aha. For some reason, no matter how many times I've been sick, it always takes a while before I recognize it. As the thought first dawned on me, however, I was quickly assailed by a far more disturbing realization -- Kim was going to be working that night.

For those who don't know, my wife is a nurse, and currently adds some supplemental funds to our income by working twice a month. She sometimes chooses to work the night shift because the patients are less demanding, and she doesn't have to deal with looney family members. What this means for this story is that I am on kid-duty without reprieve from the moment she takes her nap prior to her shift, to the time when she wakes up in mid-afternoon the next day.

Usually this is no big deal. I pride myself on being an involved dad, and I know my kids' schedules well. We usually play games, watch movies, eat fast food, read stories and go to bed. The one tough spot is that Henry still wakes up at least once or twice a night for a bottle, and I have a notoriously difficult time getting back to sleep once I've fed him (thanks, Ron), and I'm not the nicest person when I haven't slept well. Kim knows this about me, and since she has the incredible ability to sleep any time, anywhere, with the only condition being that she is able to lower her eyelids, she graciously handles these feedings most nights so that I don't wake up as the angry Mike-bear and get fired the next day. Of course, she can't bear this responsibility on the nights that she works.

Contemplating juggling Henry and Megan all night while feeling sick was not a very exciting prospect, but I thought I'd be tough and not say much about it to Kim. After all, she was the one that was going to be up and on her feet all night, so it's kind of hard to expect a sympathetic ear for my fears of not being able to sleep well.

Oh, that I had swallowed my pride and talked her into staying home.

To add another complication beyond my pending infirmity, Henry has had constipation problems for months, and after our failed attempts at correcting the problem with corn syrup, prunes, enemas and witchcraft, we've finally embarked on a week-long "cleansing" as prescribed by his GI doctor, which last night included a "mild" laxative before bed.

"Won't that mean that he'll crap his pants in the middle of the night?" I asked Kim, worried that changing him would interrupt his normal schedule, which is to suck down a bottle in 10 minutes flat, like the greedy little piglet he is, and immediately go back to sleep.

"It says 6 - 12 hours, so he'll probably be fine until morning," she lied.

The night started ok. The kids were good about going to bed after a bath and three stories, and I settled down to watch one of my my R-rated movies while Kim wasn't there to be offended (Miracle at St. Anna -- totally not worth losing my soul over. Spike Lee doesn't understand anyone.) I wasn't feeling well and I skipped through a bunch of it, unwilling to turn it off until I realized what the point was. I finally realized that there wasn't one, so I headed upstairs.

10 pm. I snuggled into bed, praying that all would go well.

12:09 am. Henry wakes up wanting to be fed. It's earlier than his usual feeding, and as I walk in his room I quickly realize that the laxative worked. Congratulations, Henry. I change a nauseating diaper, feed him a bottle, and lay him back down. As I lay down, my stuffy nose goes from one nostril to two, and I have to breathe out of my mouth as I struggle to get back to sleep. It doesn't happen quickly.

3:12 am. Henry wakes up, obviously angry. Once again, it is clear that the laxative had done its duty (ha), and Henry needs to be changed. My head is pounding, and my stuffy nose has progressed to the point that sniffing isn't working, and it runs down my face while I change him. Henry is obviously very hot, and he's coughing. Megan wakes up and says she wants to sleep by me. I send her in to my bed as I change Henry and take his temperature. Our crappy thermometer takes forever to register, and I have to try it under both arms before I get a reading (I'm not going anywhere near that laxative-affected bottom.) It never beeps, but the second time around it gets to 100 before I become too impatient to wait any longer. I change Henry out of his warm pajamas and into a onesie, and try to cool him down with a damp cloth. He hates it, and makes sure that I understand that important point. I give him the only cold medicine available to babies anymore - Tylenol - and lay him back down. It's pretty clear that I also have a good fever boiling at this point, and I decide that letting Megan sleep in my contagious cloud is probably a bad idea, so I have to talk her into going back to her own bed without making a fuss and waking Henry back up. She says that she is also too hot, so I have to change her pajamas as well.

4:45 am. Megan comes in to tell me that her blankets have fallen off of her bed, and she needs help putting them back on. This never happens when Kim is home. As we tiptoe in vain across the squeaky floorboards back to her room, Henry wakes up, and again he needs his diaper changed. I change and feed him quickly, hoping to get back to bed before Megan decides that it is "morning time." I lay him down, and he immediately begins coughing. I pray that his coughing will stop soon as I lay back down in my bed (I talk to God a lot more on the nights that Kim works.)

5:03 am. It doesn't. After ten minutes of staring at the ceiling and imagining him throwing up from the full-body cough that is rattling through the upstairs of our house, I get back out of bed to look for our nebulizer. It's not downstairs where it used to be. It's not in Kim's closet. It's not in the attic. I'm swearing a lot, and racing the sun to hurry and get this kid to stop coughing and get back to sleep. I finally find the nebulizer packed away neatly in the bottom of our linen closet. I hastily unpack it, and wonder why there seem to be so many extra parts. I put it together from memory, based on how I remember it looking the last time that I used it, and go to get Henry. As I pull Henry out of his crib, Megan gets out of bed and tells me that she's not tired anymore. I'm seeing red. I tell her, "It is the middle of the night, and you are tired, so get back in your bed, Right Now!" The defeated look she gives me really does make me want to cry. I trundle Henry downstairs on my hip as I juggle the machine and the albuterol that goes in it. Henry sits on my lap gamely, coughing away and waiting for the soothing clouds of medication. I turn on the obnoxiously loud machine and it echoes off of our wood floors, but no vapors come out. I shake it. I hit it. I teach Henry some new swear words, but to no avail. I must have put it together wrong. I take Henry back upstairs to try and find the instructions, which are totally worthless. I try to lay Henry down, but he's no longer in the sleeping mood, and his cough has not diminished. I take him downstairs, build him a nest out of our couch cushions, and press the "repeat play" option on Baby MacDonald (Thank you, Disney, for that option.) I go back upstairs and my guilt gets the better of my sense of public health. I grab Megan from her bed and bring her in to lay by me.

6:14 am. Megan has been tossing and turning next to me for forty-five minutes, obviously taunted by the fact that Henry is downstairs watching TV while she is supposed to be sleeping. I finally give in and take her downstairs. My head feels like it has cotton packed in it, my ears are plugged, and my nose continues to run down my face. It is morning. I try to close my eyes for a minute on the couch as Megan switches out Baby MacDonald for Strawberry Shortcake. She sings along with all of the songs, and her cute little voice makes me want to tear my hair out in clumps.

7:45 am. Kim calls to say that she's ready for us to get her. She notes the desperate enthusiasm in my voice, despite the plugged nose. Of course, she's really just coming home to go to bed. I'm still on kid-duty until she wakes up. Henry falls asleep on the way to get her, and I crazily think that he'll sleep the whole time that she does, and that I may even get to take a nap. As soon as we get home, he wakes up and disabuses me of the idea that he will ever take a nap again. It's Sunday, but Megan and Henry spend all morning watching cartoons while I alternately feed them and try to write this up for posterity.

11:15 am. I go to put this on the blog, and realize that my previous post was just a bunch of pictures, entitled, "I like my kids." I re-realize that I do like my kids. They're really great.

But I'm still counting down the minutes until Kim wakes up.