There are certain times in parenthood that are pretty rough, but while you’re actually in them, they don’t seem to be that bad – it’s just your reality for right then.  Then there are times that seem bad while you’re in them, but later you think, “That wasn’t so terrible really, now that we’re past it.”

Then there are the other times.  Times that are bad when they are happening and that you look back on later and shudder. I call these the Dark Times.

Last Wednesday Rosie had a rough night of sleep.  Gas, we thought.  Out of sorts.  Full moon.  Whatever.  And with a brisk clap I said “We shall nip this in the BUD,” and off to the doctor we went, me with the full expectation that the visit would reveal bulging eardrums or lurking strep germs.

No such luck.

“It’s probably just some sort of respiratory virus, she’ll get over it soon,” the doctor said cheerfully.  Cheerfully!  Because vague diagnoses with no remedies are fun!  So we left and I prepared for another night of sleeplessness.

Thursday night was wretched.  By 10:15, Rosie had woken up something like 13 times and was only able to be comforted by my presence.  I spent the night on Noah’s bed next to her crib while Noah slept in our bed with L.  Finally around 4 in the morning as I went to lift her from the crib for the krabillionth time, I noticed that she was feverishly hot.  102.3 said the butt thermometer.  So I dosed her with Motrin and she slept for an hour more.

Her baptism at church was planned for that Sunday and all our family started arriving for the event. Rosie would have nothing to do with anyone but me.  She wouldn’t even let L hold her, and he tried his hardest to give my tired arms a break.  She was unusually fussy.  So much so that L and I agreed that she had probably cried more in those few days than the rest of her whole life combined.  (You guys. That’s a lot.)  Still, the fever broke early Saturday and the baptism was set for the next day, so we went ahead with the preparations.

Sunday morning L’s mom graciously relieved us of Noah (taking him to Waffle House, which pretty much ensures he’ll hope Rosie will get baptized every Sunday) which turned out to be a huge help, as we had to take turns holding and distracting her while the other frantically showered and dressed for church.  We were almost late arriving, and the whole morning seemed to go by in a frenzied blur.  The saddest proof of this is the lack of pictures from the day – I almost forgot my camera, which is saying something for a person who routinely takes her camera to every day events like grocery shopping or getting gas.  The only shots of the day are the stealthy undercover shots my sister took during the service.  There are no shots of our family, not even one of just the four of us.  If I think about that too much, it makes me crazy.

We had my sister and brother drive Rosie around after church during the lunch to get her to fall asleep, because she was out of her mind tired.  This was successful, but about 45 minutes after they arrived back she woke again, as fussy as if she hadn’t slept at all.  Worse, she was beginning to refuse to nurse.  This was my last weapon in my comfort arsenal, and her unwillingness to be soothed in this way was what broke the camel’s back.  We cleaned up the lunch and made a hasty exit, phoning the doctor on call on the way home.

The doctor agreed that we should bring her to the immediate care center, which we were very willing to do even though it was a good 25 minutes away and it had been raining most of the morning.  So we packed her back into the car, squalling, and hit the road.  Then, five minutes into the trip, we hit this:

Miserable from racher on Vimeo.

If I had to name the Five Worst Scenarios for Encountering a Traffic Jam, taking your screaming baby to the doctor in the rain would be numbers 1, 2 and 3.  All I could say, over and over again was SERIOUSLY?  SERIOUSLY.  SERIOUSLY?

To say we felt grim would be understating things a wee bit.

We were at the clinic for 2 hours, during which Rosie was cathetered and blood drawn, poked, prodded and gagged.  Test after test was negative.  Strep?  No.  UTI? Nope.  Ears?  Perfect! said the doctor.   Great, we said!  Super!  But if you don’t mind, please, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH OUR BABY.

We had a thirty minute wait for the lab results, and while we waited, L was able to hold her for a few minutes.  To distract her from the fact that the arms that held her were far hairier than the ones she preferred, he started swooping her down and up in a cradled position, which made her laugh.  God, but if that wasn’t the best sound I had heard in days. But in doing so, he noticed in her open mouth (the same mouth that the doctor had been ALL UP IN just moments before) a sore on her tongue. I walked right out of the room and saw the doctor sitting at the desk and promptly hung Rosie by her ankles and said LOOK AT THIS, WOMAN.  “Oh!” the doctor said.  “That’s quite a large one, can’t believe we missed it!  Well, she has Hand, foot, and mouth disease!  Case solved!”

Hand, foot, mouth disease, otherwise known as the coxsackie virus.  Otherwise known as Your Baby Will Cry for Seven Straight Days disease.

We’re on day five, Rosie’s been up seven times since 6:30.

I may not make it to day seven.