They say it comes in threes. The bad stuff in life, the not so goods, the craptastrophies (yes you read that right, say it with me crap-tas-trophies) the stuff that makes you enjoy the good times. Alas, I begin my story of how I had to catch baby girl wee (Aussie speak for pee) in the tiniest of cups known to man. Or woman. Or child.
The first of my not so fun three was Lucas getting his shoulder repaired Bankhart style, after a year of dislocations, pain, and agony. Second was sending my dear mother-in-law to the same hospital for surgery to remove an ulcer that everyone was afraid had the big C hiding in it, but it’s all clear. Yay! After visiting her the first day I drove away thinking, “It comes in threes. But maybe not, maybe this is the third thing and I just can’t remember the first.” Yah. Fat chance. When a few nights later I was kept up all night by a cranky baby, it hadn’t quite dawned on me this was the third thing. Perhaps my head was too cloudy because I was rudely awoken every thirty minutes just when I had begun to drift off again. Then the barf came.
Oh the joys of being a parent. Your instincts tell you to cuddle them and fight your own gag reflex as they’re ruining your pyjamas. Especially as a first timer at this baby barf business, you don’t really know what to do. Just catch it with your t-shirt? Flip them on their belly and hold their head out of it? Make a run for the sink? (Oh Lord think of the carpet!) Whatever you have to do, be grateful if your child doesn’t have a full head of hair down the middle of her back, which could possibly be record setting but that’s another story. Be grateful of this my friends, because when they barf in bed with all that hair, it’s ten times worse. Now, when one is covered in spew and her baby is also covered in spew the shower is the first place to go. Charlie doesn’t particularly like the shower but I figured since she was already crying I just had to bite the bullet.
The next few hours of my morning were filled with multiple outfit changes, for baby and me, calls to the doctor, and the fastest pile of laundry ever created. Once we arrived at the doctor’s surgery (Aussie speak for doctor’s office) Charlie “Barfy Pants McGee” decided to let everyone know she really was sick by spewing yet again. You’d think that would keep the lady next to me from cutting the line but no. Eventually we were seen and sent to a private room to wait for wee. For comparison sake for this part of the story, let me tell you that 50c pieces are pretty similar in Australia and America. And apparently that’s the popular circumference for a teeny, tiny plastic cup some genius decided a baby could leave a sample in. I suppose we’re all just overdoing it with those massive diapers we put on babies these days.
Two hours of waiting, several little syringes full of water to hydrate the baby, my husband arrives to offer his one armed support. Then the doctor sends us to the Emergency Department. At this point I’m not sure why she’s sending us to the hospital but I go along with it as she’s the medical professional and I’d rather be safe than sorry. We pack up the tiny wee collection cup, a spare they so generously provided us with, and one cranky baby.
This is my very first time at a public hospital here in Australia, and it’s not too dissimilar to the emergency areas I’ve been to in America. There is however, a woman who is traipsing around in her gown, robe, and legs that would make Bigfoot feel emasculated. When we finally get in to see the doctor, I have an Asian Doogie Howser moment. This poor kid doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself, and he too, hands me a wee receptacle smaller than the compact mirror in my handbag. When he goes to leave I have to ask him if he wants us to just let her wee all over the bed or if he has some sort of pad we can lay down under her. This question is followed with more uncomfortable weight shifting and he scurries off to find something suitable. When he returns and pulls back the curtain to our little area, I think I caused him a slight stroke with my nursing baby. Momma CJ six months ago probably would have felt just as uncomfortable as he did in that moment but Momma CJ today couldn’t care less. If I hadn’t have been so stressed about Charlie, I probably would’ve giggled at poor Asian Doogie’s expense. Finally, we are left in peace and I can attempt yet again, to collect some baby wee. After five hours of waiting, it finally comes! Do I catch it in the cup? Of course not! Do I catch the second stream that follows it? Nope. Does it go all over the bed? Yup.
At this point Charlie has had a couple doses of baby Tylenol, called Panadol here, and she is perking up a bit. They cut us loose and we are sent home to try and catch the next wee. I’m getting really tired of this wee business, but Momma’s gotta do what Momma’s gotta do! At least the nurse sent us home with a kidney shaped dish that was much bigger. Cheers for all the nurses who do an amazing job everyday!
In the end Charlie only improved and we didn’t have to go back to the doctor. Thank goodness! We happily made it an entire year before having to take her the the hospital and we will happily put as much time between now and any future visits.