In a Word: YUCK

That's the kind of day it is, for oh so many reasons ...

I love snow. While I do not participate in winter activities such as skiing or snowboarding or ice skating (can't afford it, no time, etc.), I nonetheless love the white fluffy downpours we get this time of year. Or ... that we're supposed to get. This winter stinks. I feel gypped. We've had flurries, random coatings, but that's it. I've been sorely betrayed by Old Man Winter who, I believe, must be vacationing in Florida and shirking his duties.

So you can imagine my glee when yesterday's snow shower started to accumulate. My hopes started to rise slightly as the tiny flakes began to stick. Before dinner, as dusk began to settle, I went outside to clear off the steps and sidewalk. It was like brushing bits of cotton, light and fluffy, with no exertion on my part (although I could have used some serious raising of my heart rate). I was starting to feel happier, that finally -- finally! -- I'd get my winter wonderland.

Fast forward to this morning, when I was awakened to the sound of ... rain. I looked out my bedroom window and saw not the fluffy white mounds of yesterday, but instead a giant mess of slush. Wet, heavy, translucent slush. Don informed me that water was leaking into the basement, so he trudged outdoors to scrape the cold mush away from the foundation of the house. At 7:30 a.m. (yes, a.m.) we participated in our own changing-of-the-guard, as Don passed the shovel off to me so he could come inside and get ready for work.

I went outside, the rain pelting my coat. I put the shovel on the ground and pushed. A loud slurping sound erupted, as if I was trying to shovel up a gigantic spill of dye-free slushee on Aisle 5. The shovel full of this mess weighed more than a sack of rocks; it landed with a nasty "schlump" on the pile of previously shoveled snow. Schlump, schlump, schlump ... it was gross. I was wet. I was miserable. I felt betrayed once again.

It didn't help that I was up all night with my sick son, whom we now believe with all certainty is allergic to Motrin. We had our suspicions when he was a baby; we tried it again for good measure when he was a toddler. Instead of helping him, it made things worse. Not his symptoms, of course, but his reaction to the medicine is, in a word, bizarre. He gets edgy, hyper, belligerent. And, to top it all off, he can't sleep. He's a terribly poor sleeper anyway when he's sick, but add Motrin to the mix and he might as well have downed 8 cups of coffee. Last night was no different. We gave him Motrin because we ran out of Tylenol, and since his next dosage was due at 11:00 p.m. I figured all would be well. He was sleeping tightly when I propped him up to hold the little cup to his lips; what harm could Motrin do at that hour?

An hour or so later I felt a little hand pounding my back. "Mommy, mommy! I need more Tylenol! I need it! NOW!" What the heck?! I tried to explain that he already had his medicine, he just needs to go back to sleep. He threw a tantrum; he was irrational; he was frantic. I was even doubting his level of consciousness. He made no sense, he was babbling, he was crying. Somehow I got him back in bed when the belligerence started. He yelled; he refused to lay down; he wanted to sit there all night. Crazy stuff. I'm blaming the Motrin.

Off and on through the night I felt that little hand pounding me, needing one thing or another. He woke up at 6:30 a.m. in near-hysterics, waking up his sister in the process. I breathed a sigh of relief when that Motrin wore off. Instantly he became calm, quiet, restful. Feverish, yes -- almost 103 first thing this morning -- but more like himself. He requested a damp cloth, "because my eyes hurt." He's been drinking lots of orange juice (a first for him -- unfortunately he swears off liquids when he's sick for some reason) and now he's in bed resting.

After a sleepless night and a sick kid, I woke up to shoveling a slurpee.
In a word: YUCK.