Reheated leftovers out of the fridge.
Leftovers Night. I didn't even try to turn them into something different. Thus: Reheated chicken paprikash that my mom fixed for us Thursday night, remnants of pasta salad and baba ganoush from earlier in the week, and reheated Oklahoma Joe's smoked meats and fries from last night.
Last night we picked up Oklahoma Joe's as a festive dinner to start what was supposed to be kind of a party weekend: Some good out-of-town friends and their kids were visiting, it was a reunion of sorts, and we had a lot of activities in mind. Friday night was drinks and 'cue, Saturday was meant to be Rennaisance Festival (as visitors only, no costumes thank you), maybe a little shopping for the moms, then Sunday brunch. We got as far as Friday night.
Then around 1 a.m., Eli woke up fussing and never went back to sleep. He ran a little fever, and by 2:30 he was breathing like he'd just run a hard mile. Chuck and I alternated sitting up with him, listening to the panting and weighing the horror of an ER at 3 a.m. against the horror of impending respiratory something. We managed to hold out until light of day and the opening of our pediatrician's office.
When we got there, the Saturday staff whisked us away for prompt oxygen and other assorted breathing treatments. Nasal cannulae can be fun! Only not really. Then we got this:
and although he doesn't appear to have pneumonia again, at least not yet, he has enough goo in his lungs that we came home with a bagful of prescriptions and a follow-up appointment in forty-eight hours.
And here is where things get worrisome, because so far, no one has mentioned what might be causing him to build up goo in his lungs. Why is he always congested? Why does his breathing always sound like he's working on a pack-a-day habit? What is up with the periodic coughing-so-hard-he-pukes shenanigans that crop up at least a few times a month? Is it related to his weight? (He's a svelte 26.5 pounds as of this morning, and he's nearly two and a half--and tall.) I am very interested in getting to the bottom of this.
The upshot of all this, for now: Our weekend, scotched. No cooking happening here, as both the primary and secondary cooks are too tired and freaked out to be productive. Our sweet friends left early, accidentally leaving one child's pants behind. We owe them an apology note. And come to think of it, I bet there's a fairly robust market for "Sorry about last night, here are your pants" greeting cards. Are you listening, Hallmark?