The baby is sick. A terrible, awful, hideous-sounding cough that I KNOW is just a cough and nothing to get worked up over, except TOO LATE. I am a little worked up.
Three kids in, and I still completely suck at sick babies. My nerves cannot take sick babies, because my nerves believe they are single-handedly responsible for keeping said sick baby alive through the power of staying completely alert and on edge for 48 straight hours.
He's coughing! I better go check.
He's not coughing! I better go check.
I am much better at handling sick children, once they're older and already have a few dents in them. (And I'm allowed to dose them with an assortment of sticky liquids and droppers and meltaway chews and other things that say MAY CAUSE DROWSINESS FUCK YEAH.) But when a previously mint condition baby gets sick and your comforting options are limited to Vicks BabyRub, steamy baths and getting your boobs sneezed on? That just kind of stresses me out.
Although Ike had a better run at health than Noah OR Ezra, making it all the way past the five-month mark before succumbing to one of the many, many strains of pestilence his brothers have brought home and/or attempted to smear his face with. I am grateful for that, though it's making little difference in my belief that he's somehow contracted swineRSVmoniacroupflu, or some other superbug that I accidentally willed into existence from too much Googling.
Possible swineRSVmoniacroupflu aside, Baby Ike At Five Months is doing quite well. On the advice on our pediatrician, we started solids a wee bit on the early side for turbohork-related reasons and I am thrilled to report that I have not been projectile vomited on since last Friday. And when it happened I realized that not only did I not have a burp rag nearby, I did not even have a burp rag on the same floor of the house, because I haven't needed them. Praise ye gods of rice cereal and sweet potatoes, but that's a phase I am happy to be leaving behind.
(Speaking of solids, I am thinking of maybe making a section/sub-blog thing about homemade baby food and cooking for kids and other assorted nerdery? Because clearly I just don't talk enough on the Internet already? Y/Y?)
In other suspect advice from our super-old-school pede, I attempted to break Ike of the swaddling blankets. His doctor maintained that any sleep habit can be curbed in three nights -- by night four they won't even remember what they're pissed off about, she insisted. (Or course, she also was like, "just let him cry for 45 minutes or so, he'll get over it" and I was like, "I'm smiling and nodding only because this is my third baby and I have figured out that I actually don't have to do everything you say, because LIKE HELL, LADY.")
But I decided to try to get Ike to sleep sans Miracle Blanket, which he's pretty much outgrown anyway. I hedged this plan by buying a SwaddleMe Blanket in the next size up, just in case, and sure enough! I managed to get Ike asleep and in his crib on the very first try! It's like he HEARD me accidentally throw out the receipt and remove the original packaging!
Our adventures in swaddle-less sleeping lasted three nights, and on the fourth night Ike suddenly remembered that HEY WAIT THIS IS BULLSHIT and started thwacking himself in the face several times a night and waking up supremely pissed off at all that terrible freedom. Also, his hands were really cold.
Long story short: Ike now sleeps swaddled in not one, but THREE goddamn blankets, none of which are the completely useless SwaddleMe, which he can bust out of and turn into a Baby Toga costume in like, 15 seconds flat. Bedtime now involves a complicated set-up involving the arm part of a Miracle Blanket, the leg part of a Sleep Sack and then a Winter Papoosening with a crocheted wool blanket to seal everything up for freshness.
AND I AM NEVER MESSING WITH ANY OF THAT AGAIN. I WILL SEND HIM TO COLLEGE WRAPPED UP IN A KING-SIZED SHEET IF I HAVE TO. HE CAN WEAR THE SWADDLEME TO FRAT PARTIES.
Sleep disturbances aside, he is a good baby. ("We'll keep him!" she says, finally and symbolically tossing the receipt.) He is such a good baby that every time a certain neighbor up the street sees him she announces that he is the best, most adorable baby she's ever seen and doesn't cry ever and I feel this weird urge to like, apologize for my good fortune and insist that of COURSE he cries sometimes, but she always shuts me down like, "NO. HE IS BEST BABY. NO CRY EVER. STOP LIES, MAMA."
Fine. Baby Ike is the best baby ever. Just following orders, Internet.