My 2011 Memorial Day Weekend has been playing nurse Ki to a sick baby Skylar.

A common cold that was checked last week and all was well unfortunately turned in to Bronchiolitis this week requiring round-the-clock oxygen and a Nebulizer not to mention antibiotics, a decongestant, and infant Ibuprofen (that's for the two new front teeth that are coming in. Great timing, right?)

I think my last three days have gone something like this (but with serious sleep deprivation, it's all kind of a blur) - Nebulize, administer the plethora of medicines, make baby food and give a bottle, keep "cupping" his back to loosen phlegm, apply new re-adhesive Band-aids and adjust oxygen tubing in nose while trying not to trip over the 50-foot cord attached to a giant oxygen tank in the living room, do laundry, change sheets and crib bumper, clean and fill humidifier, love on Skylar, remove tubing to bathe him, put tubing back on as he thrashes about, soothe his wimpers away, wake to a 1 a.m. and 4 a.m. alarms to Nebulize all over again and oh, try to find time to pick up the house, get to the grocery store and Target, help the landlords make repairs to the house, and try to get Skylar out for some fresh air.

So yes, I'm going on little sleep and lots of anxiety (it's hard to sleep when I'm worried the tubes have come dislodged from his nose - they had on a couple of occasions - and just plain troubled by his cries that are muffled by juicy gurgles that could send him to the hospital with pneumonia if I'm not diligent with his treatments.

But on our third visit to the doctor's on Sunday morning (yes the pediatrician on call opened the office just to check Skylar) I got the go-ahead to take him off oxygen and to Nebulize every six rather than every four hours. All good news and all going in the right direction.

I say this honestly, but not once have I felt sorry for myself that I missed out on camping with Tim, Dax, and the grandparents. Not once am I sorry I couldn't attend a social BBQ or partake in typical Memorial Day activities.
For so long I've struggled with not having a full comprehension of what I'm "suppose" to be doing with my life. Feelings of inadequacies have always haunted my thoughts. But this weekend solidified just how important it was for me to be there 100% for my boy - to love him well, to stay strong, and to be competent as his hospice nurse (i.e. like trying to absorb a quick lesson from the Apria Healthcare guy delivering oxygen tanks to my door at 10:30 p.m. when I was going on only four hours of sleep from the night before. Um, could you repeat that again, please?!).

In all the isolation brought on by his sickness there were amazingly sweet moments between us - his over-zealous splashes in the tub that left my face dripping with sudsy water, all those skin to skin hugs, watching him wave to inanimate objects in the house, and chasing his naked bum around the bed as he tried to flee in a fit of giggles. And he said my name, mama, more this weekend than he's ever said before.

Sure my needs took a backseat for the past three days - I barely had time to eat and yes, I just plain stunk from a lack of proper hygiene. But like those in the workforce who receive satisfaction from a job well done when they've landed a new sales account or can feel a sense of accomplishment after delivering a well-choreographed power-point presentation, I too feel like I've accomplished so much when I see my boy improving day by day. To see him get some color back to his cheeks, to note an increased energy level and appetite, higher Pulsox numbers, bigger smiles and babbles, more restful sleep, and fewer coughs.

This afternoon as he was standing at the coffee table beating it like a drum, he looked up at me smiling with his tongue, in all its silliness, sticking out to one side. I felt like he was saying thank you mama.

Oh baby, it was MY pleasure.