Croup, Crap & Chaos

Okay, peeps.

It’s been another DAY, ifyouknowwhatimsayin.

Yesterday morning, Little Man was like: my throat hurts, and I was like: how bad, exactly???? With no other symptoms, he went to school, but by midday, his teacher was sending me a heads-up e-mail that her radar was going off that he might not be feeling the best. He was just being too quiet and sedate, ha.

Fast forward to his arrival home; he said he felt fine, and was perhaps a bit low-key, but otherwise…okay-ish.

Meanwhile, it was Chicklet who walked in the door with her coloring blanched and her throat hurting so badly, she couldn’t drink anything. So…off to the pediatrician we went.

A negative strep test left us a bit befuddled, but at close of business, there wasn’t much else to do but wait for viral panel results come morning. And I tried not to be paranoid about the fact that Little Man had begun a few of those telltale seal bark-like coughs that signal the onset of croup. Just fantastic timing, I tell ya. 

After some ill-advised, rowdy video games with Daddy after dinner, combined with Little Man’s throat rasping up significantly (another telltale sign of trouble brewing), my twins/not twins went to bed feeling even crummier, and…

An hour and a half later, we heard little man wheeze-breathing through respiratory trouble on the monitor, about sixty seconds before he appeared in our bedroom, soaked in sweat, with very labored breathing.

Game over. Off to the ER we went.

Been there, done that (about five-ish times?) with my boy. We don’t play around with croup and I know the signs and progression all too well.

My gut instinct to take him was correct. He not only had that rapid onset (sparked by some virus he has; likely the same unknown one Chicklet is fighting) that always takes him out.

He needed steroids, stat, but he also had telltale asthmatic wheezing that’s a whole other ball of wax to deal with as we consult his allergist and a pulmonologist. Ugh.

After a 1:30 a.m. return home, a couple rounds of puppy wake-ups (seriously), and a short couple hours of sleep, I got Chica off to her day of school that involved an all-day choir retreat, and then passed out for another coma-worthy hour or two before waking again to zombie my way through my day with Chicklet, Little Man, and Coda.

Joy of all joys, yesterday we also discovered my newest little charge has two puppy parasites and is now on three prescriptions. I. Kid. You. Not.

It was a juggling act of children and chaos and croup and puppy potty debacles—plus an electrician thrown in there for kicks—then a freaking orchestra concert this evening for Chica, and I’m Just. So. Tired. 

This was Little Man talking Daddy through the technicalities of his inhaler, per insanely-specified instructions from the respiratory specialist at the ER, ha.



He’s becoming a pro. And boy does he need to, so we can keep those airways open.



Chica was amazing for her concert (more on that tomorrow).

Chicklet is still puny.

Little Man is still raspy.

The puppy is still a puppy.

Mama and Daddy are running of fumes.

And, tomorrow is FRIDAY.

More mañana, peeps.

Over and out.