Mastitis...

AGAIN.  This is my third round with mastitis, and I can safely say that I am an expert in all things breast infected.  Not exactly the silver lining I was looking for during my stint with breast feeding.

This time it was a little different, however.  I felt the pain and knew right away...mastitis.  It had to be.  There was no mistaking it.  It was an aching hot throb that made one side of my breast hurt so badly I winced when I fed the baby.  Then, the pain got worse, but very quickly.  Before the fever hit, I had already told my husband to call the advice nurse to get a prescription for antibiotics straight away.  By the next hour I had a fever steadily rising.  See?  Expert.

As soon as I started feeling the pains and the lumps of clogged milk in my breast, I started hand expressing and warm compresses to get the infection out.  I knew it was important to get all the milk out of the breast, so the infection wouldn't linger.  For over an hour I groped myself.  It was pretty (not) awesome reaching second base with myself.

The next day was my older son's birthday party, which I attended, feeling a little deathly.  Two Tylenol and a playground full of kids pumped me up for the next three hours, which seemed ok compared to the hideous time I had with this beastly ailment before.  But that night I collapsed in a heap with a 102 fever.  It had come back with a vengeance and I was sick as a dog.

The antibiotics finally kicked in, everything stopped looking like a big disgusting purple bruise, and I felt much better the next day.  I kicked mastitis' ass and lived to talk about it...again.

The next day I had shooting pains so powerfully painful I thought to myself, "Holy God, I'd rather go through LABOR again than feel this."  When I looked it up on the internet, the only thing that kept popping up repeatedly?  THRUSH.  Not possible.  NOT OK.

After calling the advice nurse, she confirmed it was thrush.  "Thrush happens when you take antibiotics for mastitis.  Antibiotics kill the good bacteria that keeps your yeast in check.  Now, there's an overgrowth of yeast."  Ok, now what?  "Apply Vagasil to your nipples."  What?  Gross.  I'll do it, but gross.

Somehow, applying a vaginal yeast infection cream to my nipples didn't seem right, so I called the lovely ladies at the lactation center who promptly said, "Thrush?  No.  Damaged nerve ending?  Yup!"  They suggested a cocktail of B-6 (for the damaged nerve) and probiotics (to take while taking antibiotics.)

To triple check the possibility I had thrush and had given it to the baby, we also saw the pediatrician, who checked the baby's mouth for the tell-tale white spots, looked at me like I was a loon, and said in his thick accent, "No thrush.  Usually, baby gives thrush to mama.  Not mama give thrush to baby.  No thrush." And then I was sent on my way with a prescription for Nystatin (just in case thrush popped up in the next day or two) and a pat on the head.

So what have we learned?  Don't look on the internet.  The internet is not a doctor.  The internet will drive you mad with unnecessary worry.  Also, NO GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCHING.  It's for your own good.

Also, when websites tell you that thrush can be stealthy and that the symptoms can be hidden?  Not true, sayeth the wise and sage lactation specialists I talked to.  And the pediatrician confirmed it.  There are always white spots in the baby's mouth, and always raw hamburger-looking nipples. Not comforting, but there it is.

Two

How is it possible?  Two years have flown by already?  My little man is two.  I am at once amazed and disturbed.  I thought we had a deal that he would stay cute and chubby forever.  This kind of blows.

But seriously, the party was all kinds of awesome.  I rocked the goodie bags, and believe me, it wasn't an easy feat.  Whoever created the concept of this stress-inducing addition to children's birthday parties should be smacked.  It was the most difficult part of the planning process for me, and I am not one to enjoy complications when planning anything.

The party was low-key and at our favorite playground, which made for an ideal situation for the adults: Let the kids go wild and play with one another while we mack on sandwiches and chocolate milk.  We bought mini cupcakes to downplay the sugar.  Presents were welcome but not required.  Everything was simple.  Easy.  No-frills.  Loved it.

I made 16 goodie bags, and they were a big hit with the parents and kiddies.  I bought cutesy animal boxes off Amazon for cheap and filled them up with a CD of the kid's favorite music, a beanie baby, a chocolate horse/cow/pig, a party blower, a mini playdoh and a small bottle of robot bubbles.  Tell me you wouldn't be stoked if you was two.  Robot bubbles?!  Fuggedaboudit.

And by the way?  I made extra goodie bags, and thankfully so.  Kids and their parents showed up without an RSVP, which was fine.  More the merrier, I say.  But if I hadn't had those extras, whoa.  There might have been two-year old rioting.

Anyway, the kiddo loved it, until the end of the party when he was on the playground without his friends.  It was a little heartbreaking, watching him play with the straw from his milk box, wandering aimlessly and poking things.  It made me wish we had made an early exit to avoid that wistful scene.  Seeing him that way made my heart ache.  Ah, motherhood.