The Week

It's spring break and the kids and I were planning a trip to see Ashley's family in Savannah. I hadn't been in four years. I love Savannah, but I love Ashley even more. That's going to sound weird to some, but it's true. She's like my "fix." Calm, grounded, emotional without shame, the most tender and strong flower. Some would say I'm annoyingly protective of her. And our kids adore each other. Chase couldn't stop talking about how excited he was to see Aunt Ashley and Uncle Raymond, "real artists." And I didn't want to spend spring break here, with the boys fighting and whining to play computer/Wii/DS/watch "one more show." And truth be told, Tim and I could have used the break. Don't read too much into that . . . we have just been caught up in family life with three little people, getting in each other's way a little, taking each other for granted. He was starting to withdraw, I was doing my usual default into hyper-productive and nagging mode. We needed to miss each other a little. So we were due to leave Tuesday morning. I wasn't even close to ready, with Cole's birthday party the previous Friday night and Tim's birthday over the weekend. But it didn't matter. I got up Monday morning, worked out with my to-do list running through my head. Went upstairs, put coffee on. And as the three kids made their way downstairs, I could tell none of them were well. I decided to pull an Anastasia - I'd run all three of them to the doctor in case it was strep, ear infections, whatever, as long as I had what I needed before leaving. They could see me at 10:40. I wavered on whether to make a quick grocery run, then decided I'd better, because it would only be harder later, and I needed some staples for Cole's crazy diet while we were in Savannah. We ran to Wegman's, ran home and unloaded and then headed to the doctor by way of Jiffy Lube so they could top off my fluids and check the tire pressure before I drove 9 hours. Jiffy Lube was in sight, and Cole was in mid-sentence, when he started vomiting. Everywhere. Caroline and Chase started screaming. I could actually SEE vomit flying around the periphery as I frantically pulled over into a strip mall parking lot. He vomited over and over again. When he finally stopped, I jumped back in the car and drove home. Carried him to the foyer, stripped him, ran upstairs for new clothes, dressed him, grabbed a bucket and took him back to the car. He stepped over all the vomit and climbed in the far back with Chase, clutching his bucket. We headed to the doctor. Within minutes, I heard Chase yelling "Keep it in the bucket, Cole, keep it in the bucket!" I was on the phone with Tim and we both had to laugh, as cruel as it sounds, when Tim said, "Is that Chase freaking out I hear?" I hung up and pulled over until Cole stopped vomiting. Somehow, we found our way to the doctor. Who found Chase to be the best of the lot, Cole struggling with crackly lungs and bronchitis, and Caroline on the cusp of a sinus infection. He scribbled a handful of prescriptions and handed them to me: "If your night goes well and they seem okay in the morning, you can still go to Savannah." We schlepped to CVS to fill the prescriptions, a long wait with all the things you can imagine with three sick but energetic children running amok in a drugstore. I'll just say we left the place littered with singing greeting cards. Cole probably recorded a few using the words poop or fart. We went home. I tried to clean the breakfast dishes. Tried to clean vomit out of the car but it was hard with three kids running around in the house. Checked messages. Called Anastasia back. I broke up at least three fights as I was talking to her, and as we were wrapping up, I saw Caroline head downstairs. She was almost at the bottom when I heard a scream. I hung up, rushed downstairs, and found her laying on the carpeted floor. I thought she had hit her head but she was sobbing and holding her heel. Chase was watching TV, and said she'd missed the last step, landed hard on her foot and sort of pitched forward over it. When I tried to help her stand, she crumbled, sobbing. I called Tim, who amazingly was able to come home so I wouldn't have to drag three sick kids to the ER with me. Long story short, the folks at the ER decided it was a "green stick" break of the little fibula near her ankle - not weight-bearing, so they gave her an ace bandage and said call the orthopedic surgeon if she's not running around by Friday. Guess what. She wasn't even close. If anything it seemed worse, and whenever she forgot about it and stood up, she'd yelp and fall to the floor crying. So off we went to see the surgeon yesterday. After much squeezing and questioning of Caroline, he determined she had a fracture of the tibia. Full leg cast for the next two weeks, then he'd decide if she could graduate to a walking cast. He whisked us to a room and started casting her leg. He was a typical orthopedic guy, tall, big, broad shouldered. Older, with salt and pepper hair, a beard, sun-weathered skin. Caroline grinned. Batted her eyelashes. "I think I know you!" Is that right, he responded. Caroline said, "I bet you like macaroni. Do you like macaroni?" Who doesn't like macaroni, he responded, focused on her cast. Finally she grinned and said, "Nice hair." He looked up at her and said, are you flirting with me. Caroline nodded. He looked up at me, "You are going to have your hands full with this one. Pretty girl. Very pretty girl. But you are going to have your hands full." GOING TO???? Um, I think we're there.