I’m not a procrastinator. If something pops into my head, I do it…now. That’s how I survive life as a mom of many. So last weekend, I made a rare plan: rest. A whole Saturday of pajamas, maybe reading, maybe nothing. A reset day.

Naturally, the universe laughed.

Saturday “rest” turned into me hunched over the sewing machine, wrestling slippery fabric into color guard costumes. (I hadn’t touched a sewing machine in fifteen years; my Pinterest dreams were quickly betrayed by bent needles and cats running off with thread.)

Sunday I tried again to rest. Another flop. Life kept tossing “urgent” things at me.

By Tuesday, I thought, Okay. Clean house, mop floors, bathrooms done, maybe do something fun with the little girls. Coffee in hand, I woke Harper.

Her face stopped me cold.

The entire right side was puffed, swollen, cartoonishly lopsided. Think Will Smith in Hitchwhen the seafood hits. One eye squinty, one cheek ballooned, lip drooping just enough to make my stomach drop.

She was breathing fine, no fever, no pain. Normally I lean toward natural fixes and wait-and-see, but that deep gut alarm that turns on the second you conceive (the one that whispers Something is wrong) screamed: Call the doctor. Now.

We got an appointment a few hours later. Swelling had eased but her face was still asymmetrical. The pediatrician looked concerned and sent us on to the children’s hospital you know over an hour away. I scrambled: left Lynnlee with the teenagers, snagged Dad, and hit the road.

At the hospital, a parade of professionals, nurses, physician assistants, doctors…all stumped. Poked, prodded, head tilted this way and that. Finally, with shrugging sympathy, they handed us antibiotics “just in case.” Kind words. A $500 bill. A prescription. No real answers.

That night, I stood in the kitchen with a very awake, slightly puffy-faced, otherwise cheerful toddler. It was late, but time for the first antibiotic dose.

Cue the chaos.

Have you ever tried to medicate a rabid hog?

While a T-Rex chased it?

That was me with Harper and cherry-flavored amoxicillin.

Bribes? Failed.

Best-friend-love pep talks? Failed.

Toddler logic? Nonexistent.

Thirty sweaty minutes later: I was covered in sticky pink syrup that smelled like chemicals and childhood nightmares. Harper was crying. I was crying. My kitchen looked like a crime scene of medicine and despair. I’m about 60% sure a couple drops actually made it to her stomach.

We finally collapsed into bed.

Morning: Hitch Face, round two.

I call our doctor.. wait it got better then bad again? stumped.

Call the ER..um…stumped.

At this point I’m throwing chewable antihistamines and antibiotics, clinging to hope and coffee, waving goodbye to any concept of “sanity.” (Influencer moms lied to us about that anyway.)

Somehow, by sheer willpower and maybe divine intervention, we survived the day. Two full doses of antibiotics actually went in. The swelling started to fade again.

Tomorrow? I’m not brave enough to predict.

Thursday Truth:

Motherhood laughs at your plans. You can color-code your calendar, set boundaries, and carve out “me time.” But sometimes the week just eats you alive. Sometimes the win is simply keeping the kid breathing, semi-medicated, and mostly upright while you mop up cherry syrup and tears.

And if you’ve ever fought a toddler with a medicine syringe, you know the expression you can lead a horse to water? Well that would be easier than this 

Your turn: What’s your worst “giving a kid medicine” battle? I need solidarity (and maybe better bribe ideas).