Talk about poop storms.

Last week had a bit of an iffy start and it just kind of kept going. Karl was away until Sunday so it was just Parker and I. I will forever and always have all the respect in the world for single parents, because this week kicked my butt so hard.

When we were in Edmonton Parker hurt his foot. It looked fine, but you couldn't grab it and he wouldn't put weight on it. Tuesday morning came and it was no longer hurting him but he still wouldn't put weight on it. Since I figured he was just being overly cautious (a toddler rarity), I didn't bother calling the health line until Thursday night. While I was on hold, Parker destroyed the kitchen and discovered the pots and pans cupboard at exactly the moment the nurse came on the phone. We started off on the right foot.

Eventually she recommended that I take him in for an x-ray ASAP, seeing as how it had "already been so long" and he's just little. It was almost bedtime, and he was having a grand old time climbing on every piece of furniture we owned so I asked if she figured it could wait until morning. "Well, that's really up to you," she informed me, judgment seeping through the phone. She then told me a clinic with x-rays clear across town that was open until 10 I should take him to. Fab.

When I phoned the clinic I found out the x-rays were only open until for another half hour, so I put my rampaging child to bed and collapsed on the couch in tears.

I love the health line as a resource and I know that they have to err on the side of cautious, but she'd laid the mom guilt on thick enough to cut. I felt like my bad parent card was showing and I was so stressed out that when I went to bed that night I dreamt that my mom's house burned down, my dad had a stroke, and all my teeth feel out. It was almost a relief when Friday morning came.

Can we talk about how much I hate walk in clinics? I'm glad they exist, but I'm pretty sure their waiting rooms are what Hell is like. Take an energetic toddler with you and it's like a hellish outbreak waiting to happen. Of course I picked a clinic that took 90 minutes to get into with only three people in front of me. Of course they didn't have a children's area. (Although I'm not really sure how I feel about those. Let's get sick kids that don't know anything about hygiene to play with the same toys as other sick kids that don't know anything about hygiene and then let other sick kids put them in their mouths. Gross.) Of course the only things Parker wanted to play with were the filthy blinds and the guy sitting next to us. The guy was a good sport, but I wanted to ask him why he was there. No one goes to a clinic for fun, and the last thing I want is my potentially already broken child getting the plague from well-meaning strangers. I really hope he was invisibly broken.

When we finally got to see the doctor he was chill enough to diagnose Parker with exactly what I thought was wrong with him: nothing. He'd probably just stepped on his foot funny and was babying it because, well, he's a baby. He gave me an x-ray referral to use or ignore as I saw fit, so I shoved it in my purse and that was the end of that.

Two hours late for work I contemplated taking the rest of the day off with Parker, but then I realized that after a morning in a walk-in clinic with a rampaging 16 month old, a relaxing afternoon at work was probably the best thing for my sanity. So I threw him at the babysitter and ran away cackling. (In case you're keeping track, this happens at least once a week. The running away and cackling.)

Long story short, Parker woke up covered in snot Saturday morning but got over it by Sunday. I guess clinic germs are short lasting germs.

Speaking of Saturday, Parker didn't nap longer than 30 minutes all day. It was agonizing. I'd settle down to get something, anything, done (like a nap) and he'd let me know he was ready for me to come get him, no matter how much I ignored him. Bedtime was a blissful experience that night, I'm telling you. That said, we had a great morning. He let me read my book in peace while he destroyed the house. It was a fair trade off, except that I was pulling my hair out by 4:30 and had already kind of forgotten about how sweet our morning was.

I lost my keys on the way to church Sunday morning and only realized it as we were heading home. Our house has a keypad entry at the front door so I wasn't locked out, but we were definitely stranded. After running around the neighbourhood like a crazy person, I finally found my keys in the flower bed outside our front door.

This week involved potentially broken body parts, garages left open all night, agonizing plane rides and walk-in clinic visits, health nurse mom shaming, lost keys, fireplaces left on all night, undercooked shepherd's pie, and two bathtub turds. I'm done.

When Karl came home last night he bore a box of dairy-free doughnut holes from my favourite bakery and the opportunity to go grocery shopping and clean the house in peace. It was magnificent.

I can tell Parker was glad to see Karl, too, because from 3 to 5 this morning (when I finally had the brain power to turn the monitor off) he was laughing and chatting to himself in his crib. That or he was giggling about all the grey hairs I've got now.

How many doughnut holes is an indecent amount to eat? What about for a pregnant person? Never mind, I don't want to know.