"Take Me Home Tonight"

Well, we're back home. What day is it?

The last 639 hours (or something like that) have been a total blur, but I'll try to put the events of the past few days in some sort of order. I'm sure I'll ramble a bit, so come back when you've got about three hours of free time. Maybe I could read the entry to you while you sleep?

When Connor woke up Monday morning, I was greeted with a scene of disturbing horror; There was vomit dripping from his crib giving his room the appearance of a zombie film set. It was chunky, smelly, it looked like brains, and it was merely the beginning of our ordeal. Everything I tried to put in him (soymilk, juice, banana, dead bugs) came right back out within a minutes. After a few conversations with the doctor's office's nurse on call, we decided to wait the nasuea out and see what happened during the night before we took Connor in to the doctor on Tuesday – based mostly on the advice of the nurse.

By midnight, we were sitting in the emergency room at the hospital with a dehydrated and thoroughly exhausted little boy. Four hours later, we got called back. Two hours later, we finally got some medical care. Mistake number two (after not taking Connor in mid-day on Monday) was visiting the ER on the busiest night the hospital has ever had according to the attending nurses and doctors — again, a move advised by our nurse.

Oops.

By the way, if anyone ever doubted Stacey's tenacity as a mother, they should have heard the condemnations she was offering under her breath while we waited for someone to help our chapped son who had been without liquid and peaceful rest for nearly 12 hours.

By 4 a.m., he was pleading for water in an unsettling stupor.

"MOMMY?! WATTY?!" (over and over and over)

It didn't make the wait any easier. Keep in mind, also, that the decision-making parents had had no sleep to this point.

By 6:30, Connor had finally been hooked up to an IV, although he pulled it out with his teeth shortly after its insertion. Enter IV #2, one seriously cross kid and an exasperated medical team. After avoiding a catheter insertion (THANK YOU, JESUS) to test his urine, Connor was finally admitted to the hospital.

Although the rest of the day was rough (much more vomiting, more intravenous-induced rage) Connor finally got some undisturbed sleep — though Stacey and I were essentially awake through the entire ordeal. Stacey's first real sleep was in the bed with Connor on Monday night — in so deep a sleep, in fact, that she didn't wake up when the nurses checked Connor's vital signs throughout the night. She asked a nurse if there were any jokes going around about her being the deep sleeper with bad breath.

Either she got off easy, or the nurse was too polite to tell her the truth.

Each day Connor got progressively better until he was finally discharged late this morning. He's still a bit queasy, though (and I'm afrraid we may have already caught his leftover germs). He napped for nearly six hours this afternoon before spraying the most noxious poop you can imagine.

(Without exaggeration, the odor was BY FAR the worst thing I have EVER smelled. Should the governnent ever consider using particular odors as chemical weaponry, they should really come see me first.)

The next few days should be filled with plenty of questions (will we get sick?, will the diarrhea last?, why would anyone want to see a Kid Rock/Scott Stapp sex tape?), but at least we're home.

There's no place like it.