THIS IS WHY YOU CALL ME MOM

There are some days that feel like every other day: the days I wake up, brush my teeth and shower, either fight the angry wave in my hair or let it be, experience the magic of an eyebrow pencil, slap on a coat of mascara, wake up my babe, get her dressed, head to daycare, head to work, come home, eat some meatless meal, fight over the remote (seriously), and head to bed to do it all again the next day.

Because I'm Sol's mother.  I am Sol's family.  I spend 50+ hours a week away from her so that I can provide a beautiful, comfortable life for her.  And in those 50+ hours each week, I lose track of time.  I get home from a long day at work and forget to look at her... to really look at her and see the beautiful girl that's growing far too much, far too quickly.  I forget to look in her eyes and see the swirl of colors... the eyes that were once blue, but now are changing to the most unique shade of brown/gray/blue.  I forget to look at the color of her hair and see how perfectly it matches mine.  I forget to hold her tiny hands in my palms and see just how tiny they really are compared to mine.  I forget to look in amazement at her tiny-but-oh-so-perfect fingernails. 

I forget all this, and within a few short weeks I realize she's different.  Her sideswept baby bangs are long enough now to tuck behind her ear.  I realize that her once-chunky legs are more slender and toned, because OHWAITSHECANWALK.  I realize that her feet aren't just luscious little lumps of baby fat anymore and all of a sudden shoes actually fit her; and not just that, but her feet are too big now for the red Toms shoes that I've been trying so desperately to fit around her feet.

It's no wonder the days fly by. 

It's easy to do the same thing every day, and not realize that today is 1 day more than yesterday, not realize that today I am 1 day older, that my daughter is 1 day further from the tiny human who greeted the world just a year ago, the tiny human who once fit *just ever so perfectly* in the crook of my left arm.  It's not until I rifle through old clothes and hold up a newborn outfit, then a 3m outfit, then a 6-9m outfit, then a 12m outfit, and I see that my baby (and I use that term loosely) doesn't fit into a-n-y of those things, that I realize how quickly my life is racing by.

Most days are the same.

But then there are days like this weekend.  Solchop was sick again.  Thursday she fell prey to a nasty double ear infection; Friday she was sent home from daycare with a fever.  Saturday went downhill really quickly: fever, vomiting, no eating/drinking, screaming, screaming, screaming.  So I took her into Bronson and spent the evening watching my little sweets, clad in a peach-hued hospital gown, being pumped with codeine. Sure, it was just an ear infection gone mad.  But she was in agony, and while we were sitting on that hospital bed I felt my heart crack open, spilling out lovelovelove for the child wailing on my lap.  The child who was in so much pain that she was making herself sick by sobbing.  As I wiped up the strings of green mucus that were erupting from her mouth, I couldn't imagine spending Mother's Day weekend any differently.  We sat there together amid the mechanical beeps, amid the chatter of the medical staff, and I vowed that I would give anything to somehow magically transfer her pain into my own body.  Tears rolling down my cheeks as we sat together in the hospital bed, I held my sick daughter and caressed her bare back beneath the hospital gown as she mellowed into a pharma-induced calm.

As I sat there, I wondered if she would ever realize just how much I loved her, just how much I have done for her.  Maybe she won't know right away, but I hope she'll understand someday...  Someday, as she's sitting up late at night with her own sick child, she'll understand just how much she means to me.  You will never know the love of a mother until you experience it yourself.

My dear Sol Haven, I love you so very much and I cherish every second I have with you.  You are the reason for everything I do, everything I dream, everything I am.  You are the reason I lay awake at night, thinking of what I can do better the next day to make a better life for you.  You are the reason I wake up in the morning with confidence and determination, hope and love in my heart, striving to help you grow into the most beautiful human ever to walk this earth.  I hope you realize someday just how blessed I feel to be your mother.  I live and breathe for you, and you are all I will ever need.

This is why you call me Mom. 

** Btw, Sol was sent home later that night, 

and although she wasn't feeling great the next morning, 

we enjoyed a nice Mother's Day pancake breakfast together.  

Ah, love. **

SATURDAY NIGHT SANS FEVER

Last week was hell.  I hate being sick.  And while I try to be as brave and tough as I possibly can, there are some days (or weeks) where you just need to throw in the sweat-soaked towel and chalk it up as a loss.  Very few people understand the trials and tribulations facing a single mother... much less a single mother who's knocking on death's doorstep.

Being a single working mother is hard.
Being a single working mother to a sick/healthy/sick/healthy child is harder.
Being a single working mother who's nauseous and exhausted while trying to juggle a sick/healthy/sick/healthy child is impossible.

Really, it's impossible.  It can't be done.

You can imagine my delight when the clock finally struck 5 on Friday afternoon.  The longest week of my life was officially over.  On to the weekend: free of fevers, free of vomit, free of work, free of short nights and early mornings, free of emails or text messages from people who just don't understand how hard that week was, how physically/mentally/emotionally draining that week was.

On Friday, the whiteboard in my office (which usually boasts something inspiring, or fun tic-tac-toe games, or a list of things I have to get done that day) there was nothing but white space and 5 bold words.  All day long.

Yes, I'm glad last week is over.  And this past weekend was a wonderful weekend.  Wonderful and relaxing... with a few work-related errands to run on Saturday, but who's counting?

Blue Eyes and I were in dire need of a date night.  We were unable to find a sitter, but decided to give date night a go anyway.  Once we found out that we weren't going to procure a babysitter for the evening, we  hopped on downtown, cheeky baby in tow. 

Note: we had only one baby that weekend; had we found ourselves with two babies, we would probably have stayed in for the evening.  We were in dire need of an enjoyable evening; we were not looking for a night of lunacy (which is precisely what happens when you try to dine out on a Saturday night with two 1-year-olds... it just doesn't work).

So we went to Bell's Brewery (which has both a restaurant/bar as well as a general store at which you can purchase homebrew supplies), and Sol watched in amazement as Mr. Blue Eyes carefully selected and mashed the most delicious roasted barley... so we can brew our own Vanilla Java Porter.

Oh yeah, have I mentioned that he's into homebrewing?  A blue-eyed man after my own heart.

So after making our final purchase at the brew store, we traversed over to the restaurant side of things and, in doing so, I went straight to victual heaven.  Let's just set aside the fact that I indulged in one of the best chocolatey porters EVER... Bell's is home to many a vegetarian entree, and I was all too excited to try their BBQ tofu wrap.  That was one lucky flour tortilla: wrapped around juicy, marinated tofu with an avocado cream spread, Muenster cheese, Porter BBQ sauce, and cole slaw.  Mmmmm mmm mmm.

Blue Eyes got himself a little brisket meal... which is fine.  Whatever.  Nuff said about that.

We sat all cozy in the warm upper level, where people would coo and wave at the puffy-cheeked baby who sat at our table, shoveling chubby handfuls of Cheerios in her mouth and flinging sweet potatoes across the floor as she "fed herself." 

On our uber-romantic date night (enter dry sarcastic laughter here), a nice young staff member from Bell's came over around 8:30pm, and politely stated that "it was getting to be that time," because Bell's doesn't really care to have minors in there past 8pm (half-hour extension if said minor is a baby with cheeks that just won't quit).  It was time for Sol to leave anyway... she'd had enough of the restaurant scene.

So we packed up and went home on that Saturday night: bodies healthy, bellies sufficiently stuffed, beer-snob palates satisfied with the libations of the local brewery, and backseat filled with one sleepy Sol and several pounds of roasted barley.

And no evening would really be complete without a bedtime tickle attack on Solchop by Mr. Blue Eyes.  Warning: the following video will make your heart swoon.

Ah, date night.

THE SOUNDTRACK OF A DYING BLOGGER

Well, it happened.  Everyone I know has been sick in the last week.  This past weekend, Sol and I made our way up to Frankenmuth to work at an auction (fundraiser for this summer's mission trip to Guatemala).  We left our friends here in southwest Michigan... and, as it turns out, for good reason.  They all became violently ill with a nasty stomach flu. 

And while I was sorry they were sick, I thought --> Sol and I certainly can't afford to be sick... glad we're all the way on the other side of the state.

... [do you see where this is going?]

As it turns out, that nasty flu was more widespread than I thought.  It took my sister Amanda down on Monday.  Sol was sick on Tuesday, which [oh yes] means Melanie couldn't go to work.  Mama Mel went back to work Wednesday, feeling invincible, feeling on top of the world.

... [seriously, do you see where this is going?]

So there I was yesterday afternoon, sitting at my desk, diligently working and listening to Lou Monte radio on Pandora (think peppy Olive Garden songs), when all of a sudden that little twinge of nausea came creeping up my throat.  I leaned my head back and repeated to myself, "This is not happening."  And with that mantra, I scared that little twinge away.  And I continued working. 

Then that same nausea surfaced again, but this time it had grown to be 50x larger, and it was no longer a twinge of nausea... it was a typhoon wave of nausea that kept crashing into my esophagus, each crash making the sound "omg-this-is-the-end-I-am-going-to-die-and-I-can't-even-move."  Then the peppy Olive Garden songs quit playing on Pandora, and so began the soundtrack of Melanie's slow and painful death.  I sat there in my office, suffering the 2013 version of the Bubonic Plague, my face turning an odd shade of gray/green, as my computer blared "Torna a Surriento" at me (click HERE to listen, or use the video below). 

**I think the first peak of nausea hit around 1:20... the second hit around 2:26... **

Nothing makes you want to crawl into a hole and die more than terribly obnoxious Italian opera from which you can't escape due to paralysis by stomach flu.  If that's not a recognized medical diagnosis, ladies and gentlemen, I'll eat my socks.

I went home early from work yesterday

and spent the duration of the evening dying on the bathroom floor.

I did not go into work today.