Soooo, she's on steroids again because antibiotics and breathing treatments, along with a daily asthma medication, were just not enough to make her well. Last time she had to take prednisone, she was Caroline on speed. This time, she is essentially a depressive drunk.
She woke up at 7:10am. Late for her. I am also sick, so I was sleeping on the couch so I wouldn't wake the baby with my cough. Chuck was in our room with the baby, door closed. Nothing woke her up. No one so much as creaked a floorboard near her. We suddenly and unexpectedly heard the plaintive wail of a prednisone-powdered preschooler followed by "I DON'T WANT TO BE AWAKE!" and some weeping. That pretty much set the tone for the day.
The world ends about 54 times per hour. She is manic for 3 minutes then cries about utter nonsense for 57. It has been a difficult 48 hours, and we still have 1 more day to go. Not so many memorable kazooisms, though many bewildered looks, and we are trying hard to remember that she isn't intentionally behaving this way.
The one time we had to contain our laughter occurred today when she had shoved 2 Polly Pocket girls down a narrow cardboard tube that came in a package we'd just opened. The dolls were in space, you see. And now they were stuck in a tube in space. She started to get upset about how they would never get out of the tube. "DADDY! DADDY! You have to get them out of here NOW." He started to work at freeing the NASA Pollies at what I would call a quick pace (we are not stupid -- don't rouse the beast, etc.), and she couldn't take the wait. Tears started, and she blurted:
"COME ON! SPEED IT UP! SPEED IT UP, YOU SLACKER!"