Crying Uncle

I spent the majority of last night in Noah's room, curled up with him in a creaky rocker while he snorted and gasped and a non-stop river of snot oozed down my chest. I felt the pestilence filling up my own nasal cavities and chafing my throat while we rocked. And I remembered all the times when my own mother rocked me all night in the same chair, and how I always felt so much better when she held me. And I wondered if she felt the same way: filled with love for the little germbucket in her arms, both weirdly enjoying the sweet, rare cuddling time and cursing it, because she felt sick or grossed out or just plain exhausted.

So things have gone mightily downhill around here since yesterday, when I chalked Noah's congestion up to typical teething woes and hauled him to Gymboree. (Dear Everybody Else There: I am so sorry. Feel free to pelt me with those weird little wiffle-type balls next week. Or rocks.) He's really, really sick, and I'm at my wit's end.

We've tried vapor baths, Baby Vick's and humidifiers. He won't eat or drink anything. I've started writing down when I give him a dose of fever medicine because I'm in such a fog and don't trust myself to remember when four to six hours have passed. I feel so freaking dumb because I have no idea if it's still just a cold or if I should take him to the doctor and how the hell am I supposed to get all these snot trails off the couch? Why is this so hard? Why isn't anyone around to help me?

We're on our last box of tissues so I'm blowing my nose with toilet paper so Noah can have the remaining Puffs with aloe. He threw my mug of tea on the couch and won't stop throwing tantrums unless I keep a non-stop Blue's Clues marathon going on the TV.   

He's so miserable. I can't make it better. I just want to make it all better.

And yet I also kind of want him to go away for a while so I can take some Nyquil and go back to bed.

Look. He's fallen asleep.

I'll take some Nyquil now, and go back to bed. But I think I'll bring him with me, just in case he wakes up and needs me to hold him and make it all better.

The Road to Hell...

...is paved with baby snot, apparently.

Back when I was young and new and flush with baby-milestone-celebratitis, I was obsessed Noah's teeth. I took pictures of them right as they appeared and wrote the corresponding date in his baby book, and I didn't even think it was weird that his baby book included a creepy dental chart of crudely drawn teeth and jaws for just this purpose.

I would like to report that I am Over Teeth.

I am fairly certain he is too.

And I am DEFINITELY over Writing About Teeth.

In a no-rest-for-the-weary kind of thing (what's with all the cliche butchering today?), it appears Noah's canines are coming in, mere DAYS after his fourth and final molar cut through. The molars took TWO SOLID MONTHS of varying degrees of awfulness, and for some reason I thought we'd get a little break before the next onslaught.

So we have another cold, lots of drool, low-grade fever and all that. I'm feeling like crap too, of course, but holy hell, I've written this "waaaaah teeth cold snot bleh" entry before and I am so tired of writing this entry, but I'm too tired to think of anything else to write.

(I could write about Gymboree, and how I took Noah there today, even though you're totally not supposed to bring babies that are currently leaking fluids, but DEAR GOD I NEEDED TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE AND SEE MY FRIEND* so I dragged our congested asses there anyway and then spent the entire class trying to surreptitiously wipe Noah's nose without anyone noticing and screaming "UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!" And then the fire alarm went off and we all had to leave, Jesus H. Christ.)

(*Yes! Bunny! She's totally still talking to me and inviting me places! I never have to go to Trader Joe's alone anymore! She kicks ass and I have to remind myself not to make schmoopy puppydog eyes at her. At least not when she can see me do it.)

I think I'm going to take a nap. Go read Mamapop or the Advice Smackdown or ClubMom or something. I don't think I've mentioned teeth at any of those places in at least a day or two.

Blink

Last year, we spent about 40 minutes in line trying to keep a small bald turtle child awake just long enough to see Santa, and arguing over why BLUE SHOES ARE NEITHER CHRISTMASY NOR MATCHY, JASON STORCH:

This year, we spent 15 minutes in line (the 15 longest damn minutes of my entire life, and that's about how long my c-section took) trying to keep Noah from throwing yet another temper tantrum over GOD KNOWS WHAT (seriously, what? what do you want? what are you pointing at? why are you flailing? how do you DO that, when your whole body turns to ungrippable goo?) and jumping out of line to get a stupid balloon from the mall concierge because Trader Joe's has created a Balloon-Loving Monster, but hey! At least Santa looked slightly less lit this year:

Plus, I picked out his outfit. Although yes, it's totally bugging me that you can see his diaper even after I straightened his clothes out a dozen times, but he's about .2475 seconds away from throwing his arms up and body-gooifying his way off of Santa's lap here, so whatever.

Another magical childhood moment, all for only $17.99 plus tax.

Hopefully we can all agree that this counts as updating

Or maybe we can't. I say it totally counts though.

This is a waaaaay belated birthday shout-out to reader Clark, at the request of his girlfriend Karley (right down to the wording of the sign, and I really excel at following directions and spelling five-letter words). Karley was actually super on top of things and asked me for a photo plenty of time before his actual birthday. Which was last week. Ha HA.

I was feeling so super generous and in love with the real estate community, so I was all: SURE! AND I WILL GO YOU A STEP FURTHER AND POST IT ON MY PERSONAL BLOG-TYPE WEBSITE FOR ALL TO SEE, FOR HOW EASY OF AN ENTRY WOULD THAT BE, MWA HA HA! GOD, I AM SO AWESOME AND NICE.

And then I didn't, for many many days. It's a long story, and one that I actually omitted from the already long-ass story I told you on Tuesday, because I thought I was just being neurotic and whatever, the sale of our condo is totally NOT in jeopardy, chill out. Everything is fine!

Except that our sale kind of was in jeopardy for awhile, and I was a total spazz this entire week about it, and I'm about 99% sure that the potential crisis has passed but I don't want to talk about it until that last 1% is settled, plus: SUPER BORING. LIKE THESE WORDS I AM TYPING NOW.

ONLY SORT-OF BORING ASIDE: There is currently a bird in our dryer vent. It is...flapping around in there a lot. If I turn on the dryer, would that possibly encourage it to fly back out? Or would that cook it? Or reduce its changes of static cling?

Anyway. Happy belated birthday, Reader Clark. 

A misguided attempt at "goofy."

(I have Big Plans for next week, people. I am thinking VIDEO BLOGGING. I am thinking ILLUSTRATED CRITIQUES OF HOLIDAY CATALOGS. More photos of MY DOG WEARING FUNNY THINGS. And responding to the MONTH-LONG BACKLOG OF EMAIL. Because I have HIRED MOVERS TO PACK MY SHIT UP FOR ME.)

(I am totally a CAPS-LOCK CRAZY SPOILED WHOREBITCH.)