Destination NotNewark

So...I'm leaving in just a couple hours on an honest-to-God business trip, with a suitcase and everything, like a fancy business woman, who regularly gets asked to speak at social media conferences. Social media! Have you heard about this shit yet? I think it might turn into something one of these days. The Hulk, probably, or that thing from Cloverfield.

But no lie, I'm going to be at immunize.org's Social Media Summit in Philly, co-paneling sessions about...blogs. And Facebook. Mostly on a pretty basic level, which, THANK GOODNESS, because otherwise I will run out of web-related expertise in the first 10 minutes. Still, though. I should probably write down some notes, or at least make sure Facebook hasn't reset my password or something. "And this is the login screen! All you do is...wait, fuck, hang on."

The funny thing is that public speaking doesn't phase me in the slightest. Speaking in front of a room full of people, riffing about topics that I may have just a smidge more than a passing knowledge of? Cake! Pie! Bring it! Meanwhile: TRAVEL. OMFG. WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.

So I am currently channeling all my copious amounts on anxiety onto an hour-and-a-half train ride, a train ride I have to GET TO and ENTER CODES for my tickets, codes that will most likely TOTALLY NOT WORK and then I will MISS THE TRAIN because I only arrived at the station TWO HOURS EARLY and GAAAAAAH I think maybe packing another extra tank top and/or set of underwear might calm me down a little bit. I've already packed four. I come back tomorrow night. Yeah, I better put another pair of panties in there JUSTINCASE.

*gasp, wheeze, flop sweat*

And now let me leave you with a photo from this weekend. This is what you do when your son has lost all the tiny plastic lightsabers from his Star Wars toys: 

 

Juice box straw wrappers! I am BRILLIANT. This is the sort of thing that puts you on panels at social media conferences, you guys. Take a note. I mean it. Wait. Why aren't you writing this stuff down? WHERE ARE YOU GOING COME BACK I LOVE YOU

Backpacks, Loops & Spoons

Today's the last day of school. There are parties, ridiculous fake graduations, special year-end slideshows. I'm bringing the napkins and paper plates. 

Noah wears a backpack now. We can drive around the loop without a bone-melting, ear-piercing tantrum. He can hold a crayon, cut with scissors, ride on the big-kid swings and a merry-go-round. He can write all his letters and his name, and will draw pictures of things he likes from his favorite books. He's starting to read a few words and is really, really good at math. We suspect that what we first assumed was synesthesia is actually something more like perfect pitch -- he identifies the song colors right along with key changes, and can describe the color of other tones in the world, like cell phones and car horns. 

And he can eat ice cream with a spoon.

Last summer, right before school started, we went to a pizza restaurant and bribed good behavior from Noah in exchange for chocolate ice cream. Which arrived not in a cone, but in a bowl with a spoon. Noah still ate everything with his fingers, but couldn't handle the mess and the cold of ice cream which is supposed to come in a cone like it usually does what is this nonsense no spoon no spoon NO SPOON. Needless to say, this was not a restaurant outing that ended well. He freaked out, epically, and we abandoned the ice cream on the table, and drove home in angry, baffled silence.

I've written quite a bit about our battle with utensils over at The Stir -- how it's been the perfect storm of fine motor skills, oral hypersensitivity, insanely picky eating and Noah's general refusal to do anything that he's not immediately good at. How we enlisted the help of teachers and OTs and strategic snacks and school and bribes of old first-gen iPhones. 

Well.

Game, set, match.

These little triumphs -- loops and spoons and hours and hours with patient, amazing teachers -- have helped win a bigger war: Noah is confident and flexible now, so much more willing to try new things and join the group. The world is not out to get him anymore, to overwhelm him with things he doesn't like and concepts he can't process. He understands how to play and how to talk and how what when why who. 

I had to miss his Field Day last week because of work, though when I saw the announcement I admit I didn't think it was anything worth rearranging my schedule for -- Noah probably wouldn't participate but would just run around the outskirts and yell at anyone who dared put demands on him or offered to show him how to hit the teeball. 

Another mother took photos for me -- photos of Noah throwing beanbags, attempting a long jump, happily holding the edge of a parachute next to his friends, leading the rolling charge in a huge herd of children chasing a ball almost as big as they were. I was shamed to realize that I still expect the Then instead of the Now. 

And the Now is better. The Now is so good. 

 

 

Congratulations, Noah, on a great year. We're ridiculously, insanely proud of you. 

Area Woman Demands Medal For Heroic Rescue of Disgusting Thing She Totally Hates

Jason Storch, Mouse Trapper M.D., caught himself another one this morning. He was quite proud of himself. The dog and the cat, on the other hand, were all nonchalantly hanging around the trap, waiting for me to put their kibble down, COMPLETELY UNFAZED by the live mouse SITTING RIGHT THERE in a clear plastic box, and did not seem to be all ashamed of themselves and their utter uselessness. 

Also! This: 

 
Is EVEN MORE BULLSHIT.

That's a dishtowel covering up today's Gladware-encased rodent offering, on the front seat of my car, as the whole "release" bit of Jason's catch-and-release plan fell to me this time. ME! 

Technically, Jason offered to take care of the mouse...later. Like, "I have to go somewhere around 4 p.m. so I'll do it then" later. I pointed out that while it's fine and great that he's so determined to trap the mice humanely and all, there's something about keeping the things trapped in cheap plastic containers all day --wallowing in piss and shit and probably terrified out of their feeble stupid tiny poop-pellet-sized disgusting brains -- that strikes me as kind of cruel. 

(Also cruel: My suspicion that he likes keeping the mice around because he thinks the look on my face and the involuntary creeped-out shoulder-spasms I get each and every time I walk into the kitchen and see the container on the counter are really funny.)

And so that's why I -- the sole non-lunatic in a household of males that have all been completely brainwashed by the Disney animation establishment -- ended up taking responsibility for freeing the awful creature in a field near Noah's school. 

(The whole drive there, Noah kept trying to understand WHY I don't like mice, mostly by asking me if I liked mice or not over and over and over again, trying to wear me down and get me to say that I did. And wear me down he did, because I finally gave up and told him that yes, I like mice just fine when they are OUTSIDE, but that I don't like mice in my HOUSE. Or CAR. Or FOOD STORAGE CONTAINERS.)

(This half-truth is still probably better than the colossal outright lie we tell him about "sending the mouse back to his family" when we talk about setting them free, because I know full well that the mouse's family [and likely a litter of blind naked mole-rat dependents] are totally back at our house, inside of our wall.)

So after dropping Noah off at his classroom I snuck over to the edge of the parking lot with my dishrag-covered offering and set the mouse free. I watched it sit there for awhile before bounding (BOUNDING, HE HONESTLY BOUNDED, IT WAS GROSS YET ADORABLE) over to a tree to clean itself off. 

 

Freedom! Terrible, blinding freedom!
 
I drove off and then found myself worrying about the mouse -- God, maybe I should've walked over to those bushes so it wouldn't be left so far out in the open? Or over there, where it wouldn't be so close to the street? Quick, scan the sky for hawks! Should I go back and try to like, corral it someplace else? 

The mental image of myself, running (OR BOUNDING) through a field by the side of the road, trying to ensure the relative safety of a MOUSE, possibly while banging the lid and bowl of a thoroughly befouled Gladware container together, snapped me right back to curmudgeonly reality, which was: That thing should count its goddamn blessings already. 

 

FUCK YOU, MICKEY. GOOD LUCK NOT BEING EATEN.
 

AND THEN!

My weekend got EVEN BETTER, if you can believe it. 

After staggering downstairs in search of coffee on Saturday morning, I was greeted by the usual sight of Jason making pancakes for the boys. 

Oh, and this, sitting on our kitchen counter:

BELIEVE IT.

I took one look at that tiny pointy seizing rodent poop monster -- on my COUNTER, in my GLADWARE, which once held CHRISTMAS COOKIES -- and turned around and marched right back out.

Noah climbed down from his stool -- and his breakfast, which was also on the COUNTER, just INCHES away the scratchy disease-ridden furball -- and chased after me, imploring me to come look! Come look, Mommy! He's our FRIEND, Mommy! Don't worry, Mommy, it's just a little mouse, and he's a friendly mouse, Mommy. 

He took my hand and pulled me back into the kitchen, where Jason was practically on the floor laughing at Noah's earnest reassurances (the very same patch of floor where this very same blinky jumpy dwarf rat thing had been brazenly skittering around at all hours of the night for weeks, BY THE WAY).

I indulged Noah and looked directly into the big bulging eyes of the furry helldemon and said yes, he seemed like a very nice mouse.

"His name is Any," Noah said. "I love him."

I glared at Jason and asked him what kind of trap had finally caught the vile bald-footed sewer-dweller and he showed me a collection of humane traps he'd picked up at the hardware store. "I've had to put new bait in them a couple times because he kept going in there and then getting back out. Last night he finally got stuck." 

He added, "He REALLY likes peanut butter."

I poured a cup of coffee and eyeballed the pocket-sized ball of plague, who was up on its hind legs, trying to nibble on the airholes Jason had punched in the lid. The container already had a unbelievable amount of mouse shit in the bottom.

The plan was to drive out to the deep 'burbs that day to take the boys to a splash park, and release the skittering itchy shifty-eyed beastrat in the fields nearby. It took us a bit longer to get ready than we thought, and when I went back into the kitchen to pack up some water and snacks, I noticed it was sitting completely still, curled up in the corner.

"OH SHIT," I thought, and poked the container. It jumped up in a panic and started racing around so hard the container moved and I did an involuntary girlscream and jumped back about four feet. It stared at me through the festive red plastic lid. I stared back. 

I noticed it had eaten all the dog food Jason had so kindly provided for it a few hours earlier. 

I went to the pantry and pulled out a box of Cheerios, and God help me, I peeled back the Gladware lid and quickly tossed a couple bites of cereal inside. I debated putting a little water in the container too but thought that might just scare it more than anything. It stared at me some more.

"I still DON'T LIKE YOU," I hissed at it. "Just so we understand each other."

I think maybe it nodded. Or else it was just the beginning stages of some rodent-bourne palsy that will one day wipe out humanity. Either way, I think it got my point.

***

We drove a good 20 miles away and released Any the Mouse in a park, near a dumpster by a soccer field. The Gladware went directly into the dumpster. Now let us never speak of this again. 

TIMELINE OF DOOM

Two weeks ago: 

I accidentally hit a curb in my car, apparently hard enough to damage the sidewall of the tire. An ominous-looking bump appeared, rendering the car undriveable until we got a replacement tire. We had a spare but for some reason there was something wrong with the spare that Jason explained and I don't know I wasn't listening zzzzzzzzzboring, look, you're going to need to accept that I am a Classic Awful Girl when it comes to car stuff and move on, okay?

One week ago: 

Jason finally made up his mind about the tire, because you know how he is about tires. He ordered a "slightly used" tired off eBay to save us from having to replace multiple tires, because the other tires were fine, at least according to the highly scientific tread-measurements we conducted using various coin of U.S. currency and also zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzboring.

In the meantime: 

Jason worked from home most days, other days we haggled and juggled and chauffeured everybody around in the other car, like pilgrims or whoever it was who lived in the days of everybody only having one car.

Last Tuesday:

Jason mentions that it's probably time to maybe start thinking about replacing the clutch on the other car, our now semi-only car. The car is only seven years old, but apparently the clutch on this particular car wears out much sooner because it was a poor match for the car's power according to the guys on the forums, at which point I mime passing out and drooling, because our car has a FORUM, haaaaaaazzzzzzzzzzzzzboring, I only watch Top Gear for the parts where shit gets blown up and Captain Slow gets lost.

Last Thursday:

I noticed the car is revving a bit more than usual in first gear. I blame the air conditioning. I do not turn off the air conditioning, I just glare at it real pointedly-like.

Last Friday:

FedEx claims our new-old tire is out for delivery and should arrive any minute. FedEx is a filthy liar. I leave to pick Noah up from school in the other car. It's...revving a lot, in the lower gears. It's...wow, that's really embarrassing sounding, you know? It sounds like I have no idea how to drive a stick shift and am burning out the clutch at every stoplight and...wow, I AM burning out the clutch at every stoplight, if that awful smell is any indication.

I attempt to solve the problem by turning off the air conditioning and lowering the windows. I should really apply for The Amazing Race or something.

By the time I get to Noah's school, however, it's clear that the air conditioning has nothing to do with it, like NO SHIT SHERLOCK, and I ponder my options:

1) Call Jason, get instructed to turn the air conditioning off, get into a snippy fight about that because SHERLOCK, NO SHIT, ask him to put the baby and himself in a car with an about-to-blow tire to come get Noah and I, have him arrive only for the car to magically fix itself and drive totally fine because THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT WOULD HAPPEN AND YOU KNOW IT.

2) Risk it and drive home.

I go with option 2 because:

1) The car is driving fine in the higher gears, if I can just get to the highway without having to stop too many times I'll be okay, and

2) It's not like a clutch just up and dies completely in the span of 24 hours, right?*

*I fully admit that I have NO IDEA what the actual accepted answer to this question is, but it sounded good at the time.

Of course, I hit every. Single. Red light. Between his school and the highway. The on-ramp is backed up and we slow to a crawl. I beg the car to stay in second. BEG. Out loud, alternating between soothing little-engine-that-could pep talks and profanity-laden threats of selling it for scrap. Shit, I lose second. First is completely fucked. Rev rev REV! We're still moving and I bash the shifter around trying to get the car to go into any gear. Pick a gear! Come on! You can do it! Or I will set you on fire! Yay!

We get on the highway and away from the traffic and I'm in fifth gear and the car is revving up close to the red band and we're going...40 miles an hour. And dropping. The car's essentially in neutral and I realize that okay, OKAY. This isn't going to happen, time to cry uncle and pull over.

The second my brain finally makes this brilliant, belated decision, there's a loud BANG, like a tire blowout, and a puff of smoke. I make it to the side of the road and stop the car, where my OH SHIT NOW WHAT problem-solving session is immediately interrupted by Noah. 

(Aside: Of course this would happen right when Noah is in that stage where he's just fully realized that cars get into accidents and people get hurt and ambulances and fire trucks are more than just fun sirens. The other car's "bumpy tire" has been a point of constant obsession with him, especially since he overheard me take responsibility for hitting the curb, which meant Mommy was in a Car Accident, which is a Big Scary Deal.)

He's terrified. "Did someone hit us? Did we have a car accident?" he asks, over and over again. I try to reassure him that we're okay, that something just broke on the car but we're okay! We'll be okay! PLEASE ALLOW THE CONSTANT HOLLOW PROMISES COMING FROM MY MOUTH TO SERVE AS YOUR PERSONAL 'EVERYTHING IS OKAY ALARM'.

Next, I call Jason and freak out all over the place at him. The clutch! The car! There was a bang! And smoke! Shit just got REAL, MAN.

Jason asks if I'd tried turning off the air conditioning. I temporarily pixelate myself into invisible radio wave particles that travel through my phone to go murder him on the other end. Then I say yes.

Miraculously, I discover that I have a AAA card in my wallet. Even more miraculously, it has not expired. 

Last Friday Until Like, RIGHT NOW, Oh My God, Is What It Felt Like:

AAA promises a tow, escalates my case because there's a child in the car and other cars are flying by at high speeds, and I watch them from my side mirror in a total panic because a truly SHOCKING number of people have serious issues STAYING ON THEIR SIDE OF THE WHITE LINE. 

A cop arrives and sets out some flares and promises to check back soon to make sure the tow truck arrives, and I think back to the only other time I was ever stranded on the side of the road after a tire blew out on this very same car, on this very same stretch of highway. 

(That blow out was fully and wholly Jason's fault because he took the car to some kind of crazy rally racing thing, where he wore all the tread off the tires in a single day, and then got all caught up in further endless comparison shopping about finding the perfect tires.) 

(Apparently there are all sorts of options besides "round.")

I call Jason back just to point out that hey, are you noticing a pattern here? You put off some kind of important general maintenance thing and yet I'm the one who nearly dies in a fiery blaze of horror on I-270? 

We also agree that he should probably risk driving the other car and come get poor Noah, who greets this news not with relief, but SHEER UNADULTERATED PANIC, because of the BUMPY TIRE! We can't drive with the BUMPY TIRE! We will have a CAR ACCIDENT! The compliceman will YELL AT US! And every other assorted car safety lesson I have ever spouted at him suddenly came back and bit me in the ass. And here I didn't even think he'd been listening.

Jason arrives and offers to stay with the Bad Car while I drive the boys home in the Not Quite As Bad Car. I eye the other car and decide that you know what? I'd really rather stay with the one that's a bit further along in the broke-down-towing process. Thanks though!

I get to ride in a tow truck for the first time ever! It's not really as fun as you'd think.

 

(I pretended like I wasn't taking this picture because OMG, who takes pictures while in a tow truck? Me? Noooooo. Except yes.) 

I take a cab home from the auto repair shop, since Jason broke out in a case of post-bumpy-tire-traumatic stress once he got the boys safely home and didn't want to drive it again. He sends me a text message, though, while I'm waiting for the cab to arrive:

new tire just came.

Today: 

New tire installed on the one car, still sitting around in the zero sum game of Everything Going To Shit All At Once, waiting to hear back from the auto shop about whether the clutch went peacefully or if that bang sound managed to take out the entire transmission in a glorious flaming act of automotive murder-suicide. The guys on the forums said it might be the flywheel or half shaft or clutch hub or maybe the shaftyshaftzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzboring.

Unbloggability

I'm finding it hard to write about Ezra. 

He is just so...much. And fast. And much. And Ezra.

He is 23 pounds -- small for his age, barely hanging on to the 10th percentile on the weight chart, though he seems plenty chubby enough to me -- but everything else about him is big and oversized and miles ahead of where you expect him to be. I don't know how that much personality fits into that little body, so I guess it makes sense that it oozes out and radiates from across the room all the time.

He has a temper. "MINE! MIIIINE!" he shrieks when Noah tries to commandeer one of his toys, or when his attempts to push his doll stroller through a doorway are blocked by an obstacle. He'll throw things, collapse in a woeful heap, kick the floor, and hit inanimate objects with a mouthy pout. "EH!" he says. "So there," he means.

We're trying to teach him to say "please" instead when he gets frustrated. He'll roar at his stuck stroller for a moment before turning to me. He cocks his head to the side and says "Peas?" He nods furiously. "Peas?" I free the stroller from Noah's bike and Ezra gives me a quick, barely noticeable chin-touch for "thank you" before barreling off to the next entanglement, where it will start all over again. 

He talks constantly. Shoes. Bye. Car. Peas. Bye. Yes. No. Oh no. Hot. Doggie. Bubbas. Daddy. Nona. Kitty. Backpack. Bus. Truck. Bye. Beep beep. Ball. Baybee. Shoes. Bye. Bye. Car. Yes.

Constantly! With the Bye and Car and Go. Let's go! Outside! Places! In the car! Let's not stay here! Staying here is for suckers.

This morning he wept with jealousy when Nona got on the school bus with his backpack. He could only be consoled by being allowed to take over his brother's seat at the breakfast table. 

He doesn't want to sit in a high chair anymore. He doesn't want to eat with his fingers. He will cast aside his sippy cup if he sees you drinking from a real one. He tries to climb on Nona's two-wheeler. There is nothing on the playground that he fears or won't attempt. 

In fact, the only thing he seems to fear are people getting hurt on the television. If anyone -- cartoon or otherwise -- falls or cries or even just gets really dirty, he wails. (I can't even imagine letting Noah graduate to Spongebob and Looney Tunes when his poor brother can barely handle Sesame Street.) He covers his eyes and comes running for a hug and reassurance. 

At the doctor's office this week, he heard a child crying in the room next door and frantically tried to open the door. He looked at me and pointed. "Peas? Peas?" He didn't seem scared, but just confused. Didn't I hear that? We have to go help! Go see! Come on, woman! Peas!

He's not really a cuddler, unlike his brother. I can rarely convince him to let me carry him or snuggle with me on the couch. I can, usually, get him to give me a kiss before he wriggles away, which he obliges, with tongue and the sweetest little "MA!" sound I have ever heard and cannot adequately describe.

I take pictures of the happy scrunchie face he makes -- but they're missing the expressions he makes just before and after, and look so flat compared to the real thing. I take video of him picking up his toys while singing the clean-up song ("keee bup! keee bup!") -- but it's not quite the same as watching him deliberately empty a drawer of measuring spoons just so he can joyfully clean them up immediately after. I try to write about his insistence on waving and saying hi to every. single. person. he sees. -- but you'd probably just think I was making up the part about how every. single. person. takes one look at him and melts into a smile, from cashiers to truck drivers to sullen teenagers. 

I could write hundreds of blog posts about how much I love this little guy, how thrilled we are to have him in our lives, how absolutely delightful I find absolutely everything about him to be -- but it wouldn't even come close to being enough.

Multiple Choice

Q. You greet your joyous child as he steps off the school bus. He is joyous, and full of joy. Joyous joy that he would like to share with the you, for lo, after three whole days of a substitute bus driver, his regular driver has returned. Joy! To the world! He loudly proclaims for one and all to hear: LOOK MOMMY, IT'S THE BROWN BUS DRIVER!

a) Treat this like the innocent observation that it really was and make a mental note to order a book or two about talking with a preschooler about skin color and race, thus equipping yourself to handle future outbursts or questions in an educated, non-reactionary or white-liberal-guilty manner. 

b) Pretend that your child was talking about the bus driver's jacket or something, even though it's actually navy blue, but you know, your child was just MISTAKEN, like he was COLORBLIND, except...OH SHIT THERE COMES THE CRUSHING IRONY.

c) Take a sledgehammer to the sidewalk, crawl into hole, wait for death from the aforementioned crushing irony.

***

Q. You stop for a quick chat in the school hallway with a couple of your child's teachers. Another class, on their way to recess, walks by single-file. There's a little girl with a fairly obvious facial deformity among them. Your child notices and starts pointing after her. WHAT'S THAT, MOMMY? WHAT'S THAT? 

a) Take your child aside, where you calmly have a nice chat about why pointing is rude, but since you recognize that his curiosity is natural, explain that everybody looks different because everybody is special, and some people look even more different because of things that happened to them in their lives or even before they were born. But that doesn't mean they aren't special, and they deserve to be treated like everybody else, because we don't judge anybody because of how they look on the outside, okay?

b) Pretend that your child was pointing at something else, start babbling about backpacks or hats or artwork taped up on a nearby wall or some shit like that.

c) Flee. The teachers have him now. He's probably better off. 

***

Q. Your child approaches you, pretending to be a Stormtrooper from Star Wars. He brandishes an empty toilet paper tube like a laser gun and aims it at your head. He supplies some futuristic-type sound effects: JEW JEW JEW JEW!

a) Casually model the more socially-accepted laser-gun noise of PEW PEW PEW PEW!

b) But then laugh, because okay, THAT ONE IS KIND OF FUNNY. 

Medicinal

WAIT WAIT ONE MORE, just because I cannot believe I missed the middle finger bit yesterday:

 

Seriously, I'm SLIPPING, you guys. 

Ezra's face is just fine today, and he is currently coated in three (3!) different bug-repellant sprays of various natural and toxic varieties. This is how I tackle problems: I just throw the entire medicine cabinet at them. 

We did visit the doctor yesterday -- technically we were already scheduled to be there anyway for make-up vaccines* but of course I managed to squeeze in a little conversation about OH HEY LOOK AT MY DISFIGURED CHILD. He's fine, though I recommend everybody go ahead and buy stock in Zyrtec and Benadryl this summer. 

And speaking of medicine cabinets and doctors' offices, indulge me while I engage in a few rants about the scintillating topic of children's medicines:

1) First up, thanks so much, TYLENOL, for the recent refund check we received from your recent recall. We chucked about $50 worth of your products -- including the hard-to-find dye-free versions because your Red #40-laden regular versions make my preschooler go apeshit, which is always a great combination with already-generally-sick-and-jerky-acting. It was especially awesome to toss out the almost-empty bottles that I'd been generously dosing everybody from all winter.

2) But actually that really doesn't have anything to do with anything else in this entry.

3) Just about every bottle of medicine we own (other than the infant versions, which are pretty much limited to acetaminophen and ibuprofen) does not list a dosage for a child Ezra's age. No weight guidelines, no nothing, just "do not use" or "consult a doctor." I know this is technically in response to a number of parents incorrectly dosing their children and causing a lot of inadvertent harm. And harm is bad! I am not a fan of harm! But can anyone honestly say that removing ANY recommended dosage from the labels is actually a BETTER idea? 

4) Because you know when kids get sick or swollen or asshole-y? After hours. When there's no one answering the phone at the doctor's office, and it's 2:15 in the morning and you're blearily staring at a bottle of never-used-but-about-to-expire Benadryl, wondering if you really do need to call some after-hours hotline or clinic or ER to find out how much you can give a 23-pound 19-month-old. For his mosquito bite.

5) And you know what? People don't call. I mean, I'm sure some do, but plenty don't. They Google. Or they totally guess. Which: Jeez, nothing bad will ever come of that, Children's Medicines Industry, oh noooo.

6) That said, the Internet told us a half teaspoon was a safe dosage for his age and weight, but Jason still insisted that Ezra sleep with us just so he could sit there all night watching him breathe because we are all so going to die of either mosquito bites or Benadryl overdoses, because my husband is kind of a total freak when it comes to his babies, IN CASE YOU HAVEN'T NOTICED.

7) But then, at the office, the doctor was all, "Bitch, please. No wonder he looks like Eric Stoltz from Mask. Give him the whole freaking teaspoon, it's fine." 

8) *throws hands up in air, gives up*

*Hey! Did you know there's a well-baby visit at 15 months? And then another one at 18 months? And if you only remember the one at 18 months everybody glares at you because your baby needs about four frillion shots and like, is so going to get fucking polio now or something? It is true. I know this because I am a parenting expert on the Internet**. Also, because I forgot about the 15-month check-up and totally got glared at. 

**Which is to say: Do not use, consult a doctor. 

Suburban Vampires

And how was your weekend?

Ours could have been a little better, honestly.

 

This is all thanks to a mosquito bite. 

 

Ezra's always had fairly -- ahem -- DRAMATIC reactions to mosquitoes. He gets huge, hot, blistery red welts that take ages to heal. And of course, he's always been an absolute magnet for the little bloodsuckers. 

(Noah, on the other hand, doesn't even ever appear to get bit in the first place, and gets only the faintest passing bump when he does.)

This year, though.

 

The mosquitoes started biting just a few days ago. I've gotten a good half dozen already, and Noah actually complained of itching for the first time in his life. Ezra got one on his calf, and it swelled up so much you could see the difference in his leg size from across the room before it blistered and scabbed over. So I knew we were in for it when we spotted the bite on his cheek Sunday night. 

Kind of. Little did I know. Yesterday he mostly looked like he'd suffered a little fall into a table's edge -- a big oversized patch of red to match his bitchin' forehead scars. But as the day went on he got increasingly...puffy. We dosed him with some Benadryl and hydrocortisone cream before his nap...and when it was time to wake him up it was something like GAAAAAAHHHHH WHAT HAPPENED TO MAH BABY. 

Whole side of his face. Burning hot and hard to the touch. Eye swelled completely shut. Trouble chewing and swallowing. ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS. ALL WE WANT IS ONE NICE GODDAMN BARBEQUE WITHOUT DRAMA OF OBSCURE MEDICAL ORIGINS.

(As did, I am sure, our pediatrician, who probably loved getting her own day off interrupted by a description of a mutant mosquito bite.) (FROM SPACE!)

So. Yeah. This was all very fun. "Skeeter Syndrome" sounds like made-up hillbilly talk but is like, an actual thing that you can have. Because everything is a thing! Round-the-clock Benadryl is helping (these photos are from this morning, once he was on the mend), and we're off to talk to the doctor again about some allergy tests. (I admit I'm worried about what this might mean for spiders and bees.) Oh, and maybe a permanent undercoating of lemon eucalyptus and DEET. 

Welcome, summer! You asshole.