Andrea's Adventures in Binkyland

TGIF

This has been an eventful and not-so-fun week. The sort of week that drives men to drink, the sort of week that turns you against your faith.

OK, maybe not that bad, but it sure wasn't a GOOD week, either. Warning: This was not a week for the faint of heart.

The problems really started on Monday. Sasha needed to go to have her blood tested for iron and lead. Just a routine thing for her age, but a hassle to get her to the lab. Monday afternoon, I figure I've got some free time, I should run over and get her finger pricked and get it over with.

But, oh, no. They couldn't do a finger prick test. They needed venous blood. What a lovely way to start your week: Trying to hold your one-year-old baby still, while another woman tries to keep her arm straight, and yet another ties her arm off with a tourniquet and then jabs her with the needle. And moves it. And moves it again. And again.

They must've tried with that first needle for a solid two minutes, Sasha wailing "Ya-ya-ya-ya-ya!" and tears running down her face the whole time. And they never did get that line working, so we had to go through the whole ordeal again, on her OTHER arm. Fortunately, this time the vein was a little easier to find. But then they had to take TWO vials of blood from her.

The bruises she has now are spectacular, and she had the marks from their rubber tourniquets for a day and a half. It makes one contemplate upon the relatively barbaric practices of our modern medicinal arts. There surely has to be a better way than that.

On to Tuesday. There was hope for Tuesday! On Tuesday, we got our new fancy-schmancy Fisher & Paykel washer and dryer. The deliverymen hauled the old ones outside, and gave me a break so I could clean up the dust and mud from under there. And what do I find, but a dead bird. Yes, you read that right: a bird, presumably some sort of sparrow, dead as a doornail, on the floor in my laundry room. I swept it up and threw away the dustpan. (You never know what Sasha is going to try to eat.) In fact, I had to sweep, went through two Swiffer Wetjet pads, and destroyed a cloth diaper trying to get that area -- not CLEAN -- but at least not as bad.

Wednesday was just rainy and blue and sad. We had pizza and watched "The Bourne Identity" that night to try to cheer ourselves up.

Thursday I spent in the city. On my way home to pick up Sasha, a major cross street had a light broken, so the traffic never stopped coming. Trying to make it across was a hair-raising adventure. And when I got there, Sasha had had NO NAP. So we get home, she conks out, she sleeps until 6:30. She wakes up, wants to nurse, conks out again. I try to keep her awake, with limited success; she will wake up but will not be happy about it. So I put her to bed again at 7, and at 8, she's up again. And then down, thankfully for the night. We watched "The Tuxedo," a cute and fun movie, and were glad the week was coming to an end.

And then Sasha woke up at 5:45 this morning and could not be convinced to go back to sleep. This brings us to Friday.

Today, Sasha's daycare provider calls me. "Don't panic, there's nothing wrong," she says, "But I wanted to let you know about something that happened. I gave Sasha a cheese cracker with a bit of peanut butter, I figured it was OK now that she's a year old..."

"Oh, no, not until she's three!" I said.

"And, well, she's got a little bit of a rash around her face," she finishes. I go looking for our Benadryl so we can compare dosages to see if she can give hers to Sasha, or if I should come over. I cannot find our Benadryl. Later, I find it in exactly the place where I had been looking for it.

Fortunately, Sasha only had a couple of spots on her face and no breathing problems, and the rash was fading before we even got off the phone; not but ten minutes later, she called back to let me know it was all gone.

Still, now we know we have to be careful about peanuts and Sasha; a peanut allergy is nothing to toy around with. I'm just hoping that this isn't going to become a permanent allergy, now.

My kitchen is: What, I have a week like this and you care about my KITCHEN? What's wrong with you!

Posted by andrea at June 6, 2003 11:52 AM