It’s a Girl.

The rabbit, I mean.  We went to the vet for the first time today, a last minute decision because when we got up this morning Pepper’s head was tilted to the side, her eyes were “scanning” (horizontal nystagmus) back and forth constantly, her left ear was seemingly stuck back, and she could only hop in circles, always to the left.  I took those all to be bad signs, did a little search on the House Rabbit Society’s website, and found that she probably has an ear infection (inner ear) or a neurological problem.  Dr. Teddy, our awesome vet, agreed with the information I found and we started Pepper on antibiotics in the hopes that it’s an ear infection and not her brain.  Please don’t let it be her brain.
Interestingly, the scanning of the eyes is caused by the bunny’s vertigo, which makes them unable to focus so their eyes twitch as they try to find a focal point. 
On the way home, with one dose of antibiotic already in her, Pepper stopped scanning and sat up in her box to wash her face and stare at me as I drove.  The vertigo must have eased a bit; she seems fine now, except for the left ear which is still slightly drooped lower than the right ear. 
We also found out that Pepper is, in fact, a girl.  She’s a very sweet girl and I am really hoping that this is just a minor blip on the radar of her life, and not a sign of many complications in our future.

And Bunny Makes Seven

Behold the cuteness:

This is Pepper, small enough to perch in my cupped hand, but just big enough to warm our winter weary hearts and add an element of new energy to our home. 

I think she is a girl, but she is still too small for a novice like me to really be able to tell. 

I would like to tell you that I felt badly for our kids, who have been sick nearly every week since September, and so I brought them a bunny to cheer them up.


And while they are visibly cheered by Pepper’s presence, the truth is that I was the one who needed cheering.  After a year of losing people and pets that I loved, I wanted to start 2009 out on happier footing. 

And Brendan likes her, too.

Sick, But Funny

There are different distress calls that children emit during the night.  Some are loud and demanding, as in “Mom!  Dad!  My blankets fell off and I am COLD!” or “Mommy!  Kitty-cat go?”  These calls are shocking in their volume, but after I sit bolt upright in bed and calm my heart from trying to beat it’s way out of my chest I am able to feel both relieved and a little annoyed that my sleep is being interrupted by children who really ought to be able to pull up their own blankets and find their own stuffed kitty-cats, especially since they require their bedrooms to be nearly spot lit at night with nightlights.  And for the record, the kitty-cat is always RIGHT THERE, not missing at all, which is slightly maddening at three a.m.  But I digress.  Other calls are more plaintive, such as when they are asking for water because the dry heat has once again robbed their vocal chords of the moisture necessary for speech, or they had a bad dream, or there are quite possibly dust bunnies the size of monsters lurking in their closets. 
So it is that we are up a lot at night, still, though our children have been capable of sleeping through the night for years now.  Some nights we are annoyed, other nights we find it amusing and we giggle like mad men in the wee hours.  It’s all a part of the parenting we signed up for and we try to take it in stride, despite being very much in need of a solid eight to ten hours of snooze.
But then there are the distress calls that chill the blood in my veins, the ones that sound weak, helpless, and make us bolt down the stairs with fear clutching at our throats.  The very small, barely whispered but urgent “Mama?  Mama?  Help.”  Last night was one of those nights.  I had been lying awake for hours, trying to find just the right position and just the right boring train of thought to trick my over-caffeined body into sleep when I heard that faint plea.  I wasn't sure if I had heard anything at all, at first, but then it came again, just barely louder, and the mother alarm inside of me went off.  Because when my kids are fine but need something in the night they bellow, they whine, their booming voices alarm me and console me at once.  But whispered pleas for help in the night scare me. 
It was Emma and I found her pale and trying to push the covers off of her body.  At first touch I knew she had a fever, and not a low one.  A check of the thermometer proved me right: 103.9  Not high enough to call the doctor, but much higher than I like to see.  My poor little one was a combination of droopy legs and clinging arms, heat radiated off her skin, and I did the things I know how to do when a fever presents: warm bath, ibuprofen, sleep on the couch draped over mama.  When her body finally felt cool I eased her back into her own bed, then crossed the hall to check on Harrison, whose head was hot as well: 102.9.  I dosed him with ibuprofen as well, which he took in his sleep and then flopped back down with a snore.  As I started to leave the room he called to me with a question, “Mommy, what’s the weather forecast for tomorrow?”  Even in sickness his big curious mind is plugging away at something!
That was last week.  Since then we’ve had another week of sickness, another missed week of preschool (what, exactly, are we paying for?), and more fevers of scary-high numbers.  Since that first night of Emma’s whispered pleas for help, we’ve been to the doctor, started antibiotics for ear infections and bronchitis, and watched our kids like hawks for any signs of further illness.  We’ve even had one diaper rash emergency.  But we haven’t been wallowing in pity, our little comedians would never sit still long enough for that to happen. 
One more funny thing…after a few too many viewings of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, Harry has started dismissing Emma with “I said good day, sir!” when she is being particularly persistent in a slightly annoying, little sister type of way. 

In which I take ‘oops’ to a new level

If you are going to accidentally knock over a cup of coffee, spilling its contents all over your husband’s laptop, it seems only right that the blend you were drinking be called “Jamaican Me Crazy”. 

Fireside

It is cold here.  When I dropped Harrison off at school today my car’s thermometer read –7 degrees, despite the fact that the sun was up and blazing brightly in the sky.  This is the kind of cold that causes any moisture in your nose or mouth to freeze when you inhale, the kind of cold that takes your breath away.   It makes our skin dry, our hair alive with static electricity, and makes going outside for any length of time with two small children out of the question.  And so it is that we find ourselves  hunkered down in the house, with blankets and sweaters and extra thick socks to keep us warm.  Slippers would be nice, but Harry, Emma, and I all seem to be in need of that particular wardrobe item. 
Our woodstove is working overtime this week, and we feel so lucky to have it. I love sitting next to it and absorbing the heat it radiates.  I love watching the flames dance and wiggle in their effort to spread warmth throughout our home.  I especially love our stove at night after the kids have had a bath, when we wrap them into their bathrobes and send them out to sit in front of the fire.  We stayed there for over an hour last night, until well past bedtime, just telling each other stories, singing lullabies, listening to the kids’ amusing chatter, and soaking up the coziness of family and love and warmth before bundling them into their footie pajamas and then off to bed.  It was simple and lovely, made more so because it was nothing planned, just a spontaneous moment in which each of us declined to mention mundane things like bed time and tooth brushing.  It strikes me that so often the best of times, the very best memories I have with my husband and my children, are those that come about completely on accident.