I Wrote This Because I Don't Know What Else To Do With Myself
January 18, 2011
First of all, thank you for everybody who commented yesterday with ideas and suggestions and just plain old-fashioned reassurances about Noah's non-hunger strike. At this point, it seems like the kid just isn't hungry yet, with no underlying secondary health issue lurking in the shadows, because he is otherwise completely symptomless. He'll nibble on pizza crusts and Cheerios here and there, then STILL run around like he's been pumped full of pixie stix and caffeine.
For the record, I dropped a full 10 pounds during my own flu tussle the weekend before last, just because I had no appetite and couldn't smell anything so food tasted like paste for multiple goddamn days. I eventually just forced myself to eat the paste-food, what with the GROWING AND SUSTAINING OF LIFE side gig I've got going on, but since Noah has no secondary higher purpose like that, I'm guessing he just needs a little more time for the congestion to fully clear and give him his taste buds back.
What's been great this winter -- and here you will fully see the low, low depths a mother will sink to in search of something she can describe as "great" -- is that Noah is finally really and truly verbal enough to TELL US THAT HE IS NOT FEELING WELL. He can even tell us SPECIFICALLY what hurts, or feels funny, or when the medicine wore off or when he'd like another hot towel on his ear. I mean, don't get me wrong, we still get our fair share of unrelated whining about how Mom's choice of television programming is making everything SO MUCH WORSE, EH-HHH-EEHHHH, but damn, it's nice to have at least one child who can be trusted to accurately report on whether his throat is sore or not, unlike Ezra, the two-year-old walking medical mystery who simply asks for his nose wiped no matter what the real complaint is, be it snot or a cough or a fever or probably even appendicitis. "HALP ME NOSE" is toddler-code for "SHIT IS MESSED UP. FIGURE IT OUT, WOMAN."
Of course, not that Noah still isn't capable of being a complete oddball or anything. Popsicles were a popular suggestion for at least keeping him hydrated, but...the child is scared of popsicles. Won't even touch them. One time we made some together, using some fruit-and-yogurt recipe from a Highlights magazine that he became inexplicably entranced with, only to have him run away LITERALLY SCREAMING when I popped the finished result out of the freezer and offered it to him. MELTY COLDNESS. ON A STICK. AAAHHHHH IT'S ALL SO TERRIBLE.
Well. Fine. More popsicles for me, then.
Anyway. Moving on! To the newest member of our family of TOTAL FUCKING WEIRDOS, the fetus currently known as the Parasite. Or sometimes Ikea. (Long story, though one that has nothing to do with the place of conception, I ASSURE YOU.)
Tomorrow morning is The Ultrasound. I am quite literally vibrating with excitement right now, and viewing every hour that stands between me and The Ultrasound as a giant cock-blocking pain in the ass. I need to knoooooow. I need to finalize the naaaaaame. I need to buyyyyyy stuff.
Actually, I don't, really. We took a trip to the Big Box Baby Store yesterday just for the hell of it, and I was kind of stunned by just how PREPARED we already are. Imagine that! And it only took us three pregnancies!
But really, we have just about everything we could possibly need or want, and I remained shockingly unmoved by all the NEW & IMPROVED TECHNO-GADGET-Y MARVELS that have hit the market since Ezra's babyhood. I want to get a couple new Miracle Blankets, some smaller sized cloth diapers, and...uh, a safety rail for our bed. I know, right? Hold your horses, Miss Consumption Junction. Let's not get greedy or anything.
Okay, we do need clothes. Jason thinks we'll only need girl clothes, if that's what The Ultrasound reveals, because I haven't told him about the "I'M NOT HAVING ANY MORE BABIES EVER" breakdown I secretly had when Ezra was about 14 months old and fatally injuring himself on a daily basis, which prompted me to bag up and donate literally EVERY STITCH of 0-12 month clothing we owned, save for the boys' home-from-the-hospital outfits and maybe one or two onesies. This was...some really great planning on my part, I realize this now.
I TOLD Jason that I gave some stuff away, I did. I just don't think he's clear on the EXTENT of the giving away, and the fact that it all went to a friend of a friend of the babysitter's, so it's not even someone I can call up and ask for stuff back. POOF. I did real good work there, yes.
For the record, I did keep an entire drawer's worth of cheap burp rags. So. At least the kid can spend his/her days puking on those, instead of on actual clothing. By your third baby, this is simply known as Streamlining.
So. Anyway. Today is the last day for daydreaming and gender predictions, I suppose, provided the baby cooperates tomorrow morning. I know no one else is as invested in this as me (AND WHY NOT, YOU INGRATES), but oh my God, I cannot wait to tell you the news, once we know.