Lemme back up. To the cake.
Three tiers of topsy-turvy chocolate, vanilla and strawberry goodness wrapped in pink and zebra striped fondant and embellished with a custom fondant tiara and black boa feathers.
She turned the big 1 and celebrated with a big ol’ bash.
This was no ordinary party. This was a DIVA party.
Complete with yummy food, lots of people and the biggest inflatable water slide you can fit in the back of a truck when it’s neatly folded neatly rolled up jumbled into a big ball with two guys standing on top of it so you can stretch the bungee cords taut enough to wrap around the thing to ensure that it won’t reinflate in the back of said truck on the way down the road.
So. The week prior to this grandiose party, my little MereBear fell in the parking lot at her school. (It’s a daycare, but don’t tell her because – duh – it’s school Mommy.) She scraped her elbow, which was already laden with a few fire ant bites from, probably, our backyard – the landmine of fire ant hills – and it looked like it was becoming infected.
Overnight on a Tuesday night the infection got……….worse. MUCH WORSE.
I WISH I would’ve taken a picture of it sometime along the course of it’s healing process, but alas I was frantic and nervous and busy dreaming of the worst of the worst that could possibly happen ie: blood poisoning, amputation, DEATH. In fact, not only did I not take a picture, I didn’t even think to call my parents to tell them what was going on. Of course, I eventually told them via email and phone calls before they could find out from, like, Twitter or Facebook or something.
WHAT? LIKE YOU DON’T SHARE YOUR FEARS AND FRUSTRATIONS AND GENERAL ALOOFMENT WITH FACEBOOK.
ANYWHO. A mere glimpse of the infection on that Wednesday morning sent me into full panic mode and straight to Urgent Care, which WASN’T OPEN WTF? so I called the pediatrician who saw her immediately and was all “WHOA!” when she walked in the exam room, which DIDN’T HELP MY PANIC ATTACK and then promptly shot her up with TWO rounds of Rosefin, which, apparently, is the mac-daddy antibiotic and then sent her home to veg on the couch and watch iCarly and Alvin and The Chipmunks and Sharkboy and Lavagirl for the zillionth time.
THEN. Day 2: Back to the pediatrician, who shot her up with TWO MORE ROUNDS of Rosefin and prescribed a $75 bottle of oral antibiotic that smelled and tasted like diarrhea. Oh, but they put grape flavoring in it, which makes it smell and taste like fruity diarrhea for an additional $2.99. $78 BOTTLE OF GRAPE DIARRHEA. THIRTY-SIX MILLILITERS A DAY. She would. not. take. it. And I don’t blame her. GRAPE DIARRHEA. THIRTY-SIX MILLILITERS OF IT.
Day 3: Back to the pediatrician, who is now slightly more comfortable with the progress of the healing and will allow her to return to school and play and be a kid. BUT IF HER FEVER COMES BACK OR SHE BREAKS THE SKIN AGAIN OR YOU’RE JUST NOT COMFORTABLE WITH IT call me!
Dood. Gray hairs. One for every milliliter of grape diarrhea I had to hide in her strawberry milk.
The good thing was that by Saturday, her arm was looking good enough to go to the birthday party. We wrapped it for protection and let her go. She had a ball.
Note: That’s, like, TWICE the size her arm normally is.
And, for the record, she had “community MRSA” which is, apparently, different from the “hospital MRSA” you hear horrible stories about. I dunno. But, she’s better and that’s all that matters. Her arm is still firmly attached to her body and I am grateful.
SO. Some more party pictures. You’re welcome.