Jones has tonsilitis.

It started Tuesday morning.

Not too long after he'd gotten up, Jones came to me and said, "I wish I could go back to bed," so I cancelled our reservation for the gym nursery and told him to do just that. He rallied after a little nap, so we went to our church's Five Day Club. A little over halfway into it, however, he sat in a chair, leaned his head against the back of it, covered his eyes, and said, "I want to go home." I could tell he meant it, needed it, so we left.

Then came the fevers. He's had fever viruses almost every summer of his short life, so I wasn't too concerned that he'd spike 103.9 without any other symptoms. The fevers always responded to Ibuprofen, so I figured they'd last the typical four days and then vanish as quickly as they came on.

After two mornings of 4:30 wake up calls, though, I started to worry a little. He'd re-fever when his bedtime meds wore off and be up for an hour and a half waiting for the next dose to kick in. Then, he'd spend most every day laying lethargically around. Let's just say we have more than paid for our Amazon Prime account with all of the "Thomas" he's watched in the last week.

When this was still happening on Friday morning, I called the doctor's office. The nurse, who'd always before told me their protocol was to wait out fevers like this for four days, heard what was going on and said I should bring him in. Dr. O'Donnell was available at 2 p.m., so in we went.

As soon as Dr. O'Donnell saw his giant, white-covered tonsils, he said, "Well! There's the cause for his fever! Angry tonsils." He wasn't sure, though, what was causing the tonsils to be angry. He did know, however, that his spleen wasn't enlarged (apparently, a cancer indicator. EEK.), that his chest and heart were clear, and that his ears and nose were, too. That meant bloodwork - he tested for strep (though he didn't think it was that; "I almost never get a positive strep test this time of year," he told me) or mono and said if it wasn't either of those, it was likely tonsillitis.

Jones, I will have you know, did INCREDIBLY well with the finger prick for bloodwork. I anticipated a battle when the lab tech came in carrying her plastic case of sharp and pointy things. Jones proved me wrong, however, and handled it like a champ. Thank God.

Six minutes after Jones's finger was pricked, Dr. O'Donnell burst back into the room - "It's all good news," he led off. He showed me the results - everything looked normal, though his white blood cells were elevated. They weren't so elevated, though, that the doctor was concerned. Normal is 4-10 thousand or million (whatever); Jones's were 12.5. When I asked about that, Dr. O'Donnell said that 18-20 is a cold (30 is pneumonia), so the fact that it was 12.5 meant that the infection had almost run its course.

Dr. O'Donnell did say, however, that since none of the rest of the family has had a fever virus, he's wondering if Jones's "cyclical fevers" were actually undiagnosed tonsillitis, as well. That's why he tested for strep and mono - to document that it wasn't either of those things, so that if it flares up again, he can make the case for a tonsillectomy. He described it like this: Jones probably has these little pus pockets of infection that live in his tonsils, and every now and then, the pockets erupt like a volcano, creating the fever with no other symptoms. Within four days, his body has fought it off, but it hasn't killed the virus; the virus has just gone dormant - until it decides to erupt again.

He laid like this most of our
drive out to the lake.

So that's what he thinks we're dealing with. Of the alternatives, I'll take it!

The best part of the appointment - besides seeing Jones's perfectly healthy bloodwork! (thank You, God!) - was hearing that Dr. O'Donnell saw no reason we shouldn't proceed with our plans to head to the lake for the weekend, so that's just what we did. On Saturday, Jones's fever was gone, but his tonsils were still mostly white. They were back to normal on Sunday, however, and so was my (generally) sweet boy.

It's so good to have him back.

the Good, the Bad, & the really, frieking Disgusting

We had a busy weekend planned.

Jeremy was going to pick the boys up from school Friday, after which we were all four going to Greenville, where Jeremy and I would drop off the boys at my parents' before heading to a nite away, courtesy of the wonderfully-generous and hospitable Classic Center in Athens.

I was on a treadmill at the gym, dreaming of sleeping past 7 AM when the call came in.

"PRESCHOOL," my Caller ID read.

I answered to hear Mrs. Janet. She was laughing, my signal that all was well, so why was she calling? Well, as it turns out, she and Mrs. Doris had noticed Jones scratching his scalp (which I had NOT noticed). A thorough examination revealed a single bug - a louse, they assumed - so I'd need to come and pick Jones up.

Ew.
Yuck.
Ugh.

My "long day" on the treadmill turned short, as I immediately left and headed to school. When I got there, I learned that they'd still only found that one bug, and Freddie was all clear, so I bundled up my brood, and off we went, Googling "What to do if your kid has lice" on the way.

Our first stop was at the pharmacy. I dropped $47 on lice supplies, recommended by a very helpful Pharm Tech and headed home to shampoo everything that'd stand still long enough.  I also called My Ideal Doctor. Our pal Dr. Markell called back. I'd texted her a picture of some bites I had on my neck, and while she didn't know for sure, she assumed I probably had lice, too.

Is this even happening?

She told me she'd call in a magic prescription. Unlike the kit you buy over the counter - the kind like I had that requires multiple steps and several applications - this one was of the one-shot, kills-lice-and-their-eggs-on-contact variety.

I was sold.

But I was beginning to worry our evening out was in jeopardy.

As soon as we got home, I called Mom to tell her the news. I told her I totally understood if she didn't want the boys there, given the situation. I wasn't a bit surprised, though, when she told me that was stupid and to bring them on.

It became a race against the clock - me, stripping sheets and quarantining clothes, trying to keep Jones from touching anything with his head, all the while knowing that if we didn't leave by 3 p.m. at the LATEST there was NO WAY we could make it.

Ew.
Yuck.
Ugh.

The plan became Jeremy would leave the office around 1 and pick up the prescription on the way home. He called from Ingles to tell me it was going to be $300 EACH. Times two. In other words, $600 of unexpected expenses the week that tuition is due and Christmas is coming.

UUUUggghhhhhhh.

Thankfully, I Googled the RX, while we were on the phone and found a manufacturer's coupon. It made each bottle half price, which helped for sure, but still. COME ON. Before Jeremy even got home, we made the decision to give up on Athens. There was no way we could make it.

When he came in, I doused my hair in the lice-killing lotion. That's what it is, Y'all. It's actual lotion, and you rub a full four ounces on your head and wait ten minutes for it to do its thing. And then you do it to your son, and by then, it's 3:30 p.m., and all of a sudden, a weekend away is another nite at home, all because of a single bug the size of a sesame seed.

Ew.
Yuck.
UGH.

The next morning, things started out as they usually do. We headed to Greenville for a birthday lunch with Lila and to see "Santa Claus: a New Musical" at the Peace Center. We had a great time. Freddie did fantastically at his first play, and Jones was thrilled to hear his name called from the stage (which was a surprise for ALL of us!).

On the drive home, both nap-deprived boys fell asleep. Jones woke up, crying. "What's the matter?" I asked. "Gotta potty!" Jones said. This is HIGHLY unusual for him, so Jeremy pulled over as quickly as he could only to have Jones say he'd wait. Fifteen minutes further down the road, it happened again. Jones made a very panicked face and said, "You better hurry!" Again, we stopped as soon as possible. Jones got out of the car before telling me he'd wait until he got home.

One more time - this has all happened in a span of twenty minutes - Jones panicked, and we stopped. This time, we walked into the Hot Spot and went in to the one-seater Men's Room (because the Women's was occupied). Just before pulling his pants down, Jones decided to wait five more minutes until we got home (I'll remind you, by the way, that this is the kid who loudly announced in the Chick-Fil-A bathroom last week that "I don't go stinky at restaurants; I go stinky at houses." I guess he meant what he said, and he said what he meant).

When we finally got there, he ran up the stairs and got all the way to the bathroom, where he proceeded to empty his bowels all over the floor, his pants, and the sides of the toilet and tub, because he couldn't unbuckle his belt in time.

All I could do was laugh. In 24 hours, I'd gone from killing invisible bugs to cleaning liquid crap off every single porcelain surface in our bathroom. I sprayed copious amounts of Clorox and took yet another load into the laundry room.

A little while later, I decided I needed a bath to wash the icky bits of the weekend off of me. When I got in the tub, the lukewarm water reminded me that I was using all the hot in the washing machine.

Ew.
Yuck.
Ugh.

I slid the shower curtain shut and decided to wait it out. The drive to be alone was clearly strong. Trying to find out via Twitter whether or not Tennessee had FINALLY hired Les Miles helped the 25 minutes to pass, until Jones ran in for Round Two ... in the bowl six inches away from where I lay.

Ew.
Yuck.
I-honestly-can't-stop-laughing-because-at-this-point-what-else-can-I-do?

By the time I got him - and everything else - cleaned up, the water was hot again. How's that for a silver lining? A few minutes later, the rhythmic running of his baby brother rang through the hallway. Freddie sprinted into the bathroom and wiped completely out on the still-wet Clorox I'd just re-sprayed on the bathroom floor.

Having no idea how Clorox can effect the skin of a kid with eczema, I climbed out of the water I'd waited for so long to heat and dipped Freddie in, dousing him with his got-to-get-it-from-Amazon Eucerin soap.

I assumed the misery would end soon. It was almost bedtime!

Boom!
Awesome!
YESSSS!

Turns out, Nooooooo. You know what happens when you assume. A few minutes later, we sent the boys to get ready for bed. I asked Jeremy to go back and monitor the situation, because if we know anything it's that these boys cannot be trusted when left alone together. Jeremy didn't get up (football was on!), and about a minute later, we heard a crazy wail. It was definitely Freddie, but it was less an "I'm in agony" wail and more a "I want to get my brother in trouble" one. There's a difference, and I know it, but Jeremy doesn't, so he finally got up.

He came back in, saying, "Jones sprayed Freddie in the eyes with Clorox."

The bottle, usually under the kitchen in the sink, was still on the basin in the bathroom - for obvious reasons. Seeing Freddie go stinky himself, Jones assumed Freddie needed to be cleaned, too. Either that, or he wanted to blind his brother.

Who the heck knows which?

Regardless of Jones's motivation, the ensuing fall-out resulted in both Jeremy and me COMPLETELY overreacting in a flurry of sending Jones to his bed and Freddie to the shower for rinse after rinse of water.

"Should we call Poison Control? Do we take him to the ER?"

I was PANICKED like I don't think I've ever panicked as a parent before. Jeremy and I yelled at each other - obviously misdirecting our panic and uncertainty of what to do.

For his part, Freddie was fine ... at least until we tried to drown his eyes with tap water.

Cooler heads began to prevail when Jeremy called our resident health resource, Aunt Dolly. She always seems to make everything better with her cool, calm, and collected bedside manner. I may not have made it through pregnancy and/or having infants without her. I'm not even joking about that.

So while Jeremy rinsed, I Googled - and tried to fight the fear that my older son had blinded the younger for life.

Grrrr.
GRRRR.
ARRRGGGHHHHH.

Once Jones was in bed, we "treated" Freddie with a regime of reading books and pointing out the handful of letters that he knows and then rinsing his eyes out again. Then he watched two hours' of cartoons, all snuggled up with me in my bed. I couldn't bring myself to say "no" when he'd say, "Can I please watch one more" after each "Special Agent Oso" episode would end. I was too afraid he'd wake up without the ability to see, though he showed absolutely no signs of trouble.

Finally, I called Dolly again and texted her pictures of his crystal clear eyes. She assured me he was fine, and I put him to bed.

And then I put myself to bed, and I dreamed of a house where this short of stuff never, even happens again.

Nice.
Sweet.
Aaaahhhhhhh.

WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT

Be warned: this post contains WAY too much information. If you are not a fan of potty humor - and I, for the record, am NOT - then, you might sit this entry out. I just want to record it, because I think the boys (being BOYS, and all) will get a "big, giant" kick out of it the bigger they get, so here you have the story of this one week that the boys both had a stomach bug.

It started last week - I think I was first, having a single bout, and then Jeremy did. Then, when the boys and I got to Mom's last week, Jones had diarrhea, telling me he'd gone stinky and that "there was mud in it." That was Wednesday, I think, and, though Freddie had had about an episode a day, since Thursday, Jones hadn't had any more after that initial time.

So Jeremy and I decided I'd take Jones to church on Sunday, and he'd stay home with Freddie. Neither of the boys had had ANY symptoms (except for the obvious); there'd been no fevers, no slips in appetite, just a time or two a day when Freddie'd have tummy troubles.

Then came Sunday morning. When I went in to get Jones up, he was sitting near the foot of his bed. He told me "my throat hurt, and I had a big giant cough," and then he gestured to the vomit in the place where his pillow should be. True to form, his next question was, "Can you wash my sheets in the room by the den?"

That'd be the laundry room, Son, and sure, I can.

At what point he'd thrown up overnite (or maybe he threw up first thing Sunday?), I have no idea. I
DO know, though, that neither Jeremy nor I had ANY idea that it'd happened until first thing Sunday morning. Poor buddy! He handled it great - wasn't whiny or wimpy. Just told me about his "big, giant cough" and asked me to wash his sheets.

Obviously, church for ANY of us was suddenly out of the question.

About 10 AM, I was laying in the bathtub when Jones BOLTED in. To put it delicately he got about a foot away from the potty when he couldn't go any further. He looked at the brown puddle by his feet. "There's mud," he told me. I laughed and said, "Sit on the potty, in case there's any more mud in your tiny hiney."

So he did.

He then proceeded to make sounds the likes of which I've never heard come forth from his father. It was UN.REAL. We laughed together, and Jones said, "I say, 'ththeshthehshthtshtst.' It was like a trumpet." Then he did it again. This time, he said, "That's a trumpet, real loud from my tiny hiney."

I thought it was the funniest thing I'd ever heard, so I immediately wrote it down.

Anyway.

Neither Jones nor Freddie had any more episodes after Monday morning ... until today. Jones was sitting on the potty, and I was sitting on a stool opposite him. When he again made those same sorts of  sounds from Sunday, he said, "What was that?" I didn't answer. He said, "Dat 'nother trumpet?" "That WAS another trumpet," I said. "Dat hiney trumpet?" he asked. "A hiney trumpet," I confirmed. He repeated, "a hiney trumpet;" as he did, it's as if he were affirming that, from this point on, what was once considered a "toot" in the Jeremy Pressley family will, from here on out, be labeled a "hiney trumpet."

THAT's why I had to record this story, no matter how completely and totally crass it is. I know a pair of future middle schoolers who are gonna want to hear this one again and again.

The Cowboy Rides Away

Jones has been fevered, since Saturday afternoon. Around 5 o'clock today, though, he finally cooled down enough to climb off of my lap and start playing for the first time in three days.

He saddled up on his buddy Bullseye - which was a total Tractor Supply impulse buy from the nite before the nite before Christmas. He said, "Ride away, Bullseye!" and when Bullseye DIDN'T "ride away," Jones looked at me, all confused, and said, "Eet's not werking!"

Finally, he figured out how to put a little pedal power to his pony. He also invited his brother to join in the fun ("Come on, Buzz," he said, channeling Sheriff Woody).

It sure was good to hear my big boy back at play.  I've missed his sweet little silly spirit these past few days. When I put him to bed tonite, his temperature was normal for the first time all weekend, so here's hoping this ugly bug has run its course.

Also, I'm realizing how much I sound like Scooby Doo when I laugh. Just listen...

Another first

Jones has his first fever tonite.

We've been incredibly blessed that he's not been sick before now. Well, he had a cough a few months ago but never a fever.

He actually acted totally fine until dinner time. He was really fussy, but he kept on eating, so I thought maybe his second tooth was giving him trouble.

After Jeremy got home, Jones felt warm, so we took his temperature three times, and it was 101.

If I were a betting woman (and, during football season, I kinda am!), I'd wager it's either teething-related, or maybe he's got a little congestion from being in and out of so many hotel rooms. He's not got any other symptoms (well, he had diarrhea this afternoon, which also goes along with teething, I'm told), so I'm not at all worried, but I wanted to note the fever here, as I try to keep track of the milestones in his little life!

Sick Day

I'll bet you're looking at this picture and wondering why Jones is in his napper at NITE.

And MAYBE, just MAYBE you're asking yourself why Jones's room has been rearranged, so that what is typically his napping apparatus has replaced the place where his bed usually is.

Well, here you have it:

Jones has his first cold.

It's not bad, and he's not fevered, but he's got a croupy wheeze that makes him sound like the penguin in "Toy Story 2," so he's taking Children's Mucinex and sleeping in his napper, because, though I'm not THAT kind of doctor, I've convinced myself that the incline will keep him from choking on his own drainage.

Makes sense to ME, anyway.

Oh, and I placed him right by his monitor, so if he needs me, I'll hear him via monitor before the sound can even reach my bedroom.

(UPDATE: He didn't need me. He slept clear through to 7 a.m. and was his same sweet, though still-croupy self, when I went him for my morning smiles.)