Archive for the ‘Sickies’ Category
That was a good drum break.
If you’ve ever read this blog, or any blog written by a parent, you would know that some things are understood—things like sleep is a myth and all restrooms are public.
We didn’t sleep last night. Granted, we never sleep. Our bed is too small for the ark that Jacob said to build upon it (see below) and a good rest is seldom had.
Yes, we co-sleep. I don’t care what you think. Unless you’re okay with it, then by all means think away. Our decision to do so is based loosely on the fact that we sold the kids’ beds on Craigslist. It’s a recession, people.
Plus, the move and all that. They’ll have beds soon, put the phone down.
Anyway, last night there was little sleep had by anyone with a pillow (see above). It was a night of cries, screams and whimpering. Yes, whimpering. And whining.
Thing Two (top center) has been sickish for a few days. We assumed it to be allergies. The air here is disgusting and everyone is coughing, itching and feeling like crap. We figured that was the case with Thing Two, or possibly Swine Flu.
About, oh, 4am, he declared that his ears hurt. Not one ear, but ears. Then he continued to cry, scream and whimper, without even missing a beat. The kid has talent. Eat that Susan Boyle.
Six in the morning found me and the boy in Urgent Care. Double ear infections. Antibiotics. A doughnut. A nap.
Now he’s sitting at my feet eating ice cream and whimpering noticeably softer. And I am more tired for it.
“Oh, blood. Somebody must have died there.”
He is five-years-old and I’m standing outside the bathroom on the campus of his elementary school. The door is propped open and the floor is covered with paper towels and urine. There is blood on the sidewalk between me and the tile.
“I doubt anyone died there,” I tell him. “Today,” I keep to myself.
Maybe it is spit heavy with dye and candy.
He is unfazed by the possibility of death or by its looming presence. He is running in the cloudy haze of springtime, fresh from finding a favorite sweater among the memories of the lost and found. He is jumping cracks and lines drawn from chalk.
I am walking a growing distance behind him. My sweatshirt is pulled tight. The springtime wind is sharp and cold.
My head is full of medicine and mucus. The image is unpleasant and the reality is worse. It is a day after my 38th birthday and I am tired and my Facebook wall is full. It is a good feeling to be thought of, but even the warmth of sentiment is lost in the breeze. I pull my sweatshirt tighter.
We are home and the boys are not listening. My wife is listening to the J. Geils Band and everything is a freeze frame.
There are cards in the mailbox full of checks and signatures. I read every line, even the words written by a company that has never met me. I put the money in my wallet and throw the cards away. They’ve served their purpose and theirs is to be forgotten and recycled. Perhaps they will come back as a love note or parking ticket, a poem or a receipt. Maybe a birthday card is all there is.
I’m behind in my work. I’m behind in my bills. The daylight lasts an hour longer and it is not enough.
There is cold coffee and leftover spaghetti on my desk- a temporary stop before they are a part of me, like the spring and the wind, life and death, my boys, my wife, a wall written on and mailboxes filled. Like work and bills and walks of growing distance, everything is medicine and everything is mucus. It is heavy with dye and candy.
Everything is a freeze frame and for some reason I find comfort there.
Chances are you’ve read the last few posts and thought that I was pretty much the best dad ever, and you’d be right. Chances are even better that you didn’t read the last few posts. Your loss, seeing as people think I’m pretty much the best dad ever.
The thing is my status as best dad ever, pretty much, is based upon a criteria of relativity and supply and demand. If you’re a dad there’s a decent chance someone thinks the same of you, although, to be honest, some of you are fairly suspect.
I’ve spent two days with my hand in a butt crack that isn’t mine. I’m just throwing that out there.
Zane woke up sick on his birthday. He woke up about 5 minutes after his ass did. Fast forward a few hours later and my hand is silky smooth and will never know the likes of diaper rash. His butt, however, is tender as the night, assuming the night is raw, chaffed and burning. I’ve known nights like that.
This morning he finally seems better. I’m sure it’s not over, but the healing has begun. I feel a sense of hope that the only crack my hand will be in is my own, albeit briefly.
He’s been dancing all morning to the Flobots and singing about riding his bike with no handlebars, which, just between us, is bullshit because he can barely handle his tricycle, but who am I to mess with creative license?
I only hope I don’t have to hear my son cry today, and not in an earplugs sort of way, but in the sweet kind of way that you’ve come to expect from pretty much the best dad ever.
This is the part where my mom cries.
For some reason the good folks at MamaPop asked me to write on their site today, which means they are either extremely desperate or gluttons for punishment. Whatevs. I did a recap of “Heroes.” I’m the poor man’s TiVo and so can you!
Seventeen of you lovely people put your name in the proverbial ring for a chance at winning the Didi Pop CD. We have a winner…
But first, I wanted to share my favorite song from the album. There wasn’t a video on Didi’s site for “Dream,” so I made one. Well, I made a slideshow with pictures of my kids sleeping, so what? It still took time.
The winner, picked at random by one snotty, sick little boy is Hetha. Congratulations!
I participated in my first Wordless Wednesday today. It’s a picture taken at The Grove shopping center a few
Christmasesesss winters ago. I’ve always liked the photo, even if it was taken on my old phone.
Click on this so I can make my traffic bonus!
Did you read about Atticus trying to burn the house down?
I have four copies of Drew Magary’s very funny book Men with Balls to give away. I had all kinds of funny to do with this, but DC Urban Dad just ran like crazy with his contest and now I feel inadequate (just in the contest area).
The book is funny. Very funny. I was supposed to give away five copies but last night my neighbor yelled over the fence that it was his birthday and invited me over for cake. I threw a bow on my copy of the book and made an insta-gift. Now I wants mine. Yes, I said I wants it. That should show you just how funny it is.
If you want to win a copy leave another word for “balls” in the comments. You can’t use a term if someone else already has. The four funniest/most original will win. Enter often, win once.
MORE GIFT IDEAS!
Remember when I mentioned the Little Tikes Pop Tunes Guitar? Little Tikes was kind enough to send me the rest of the band:
The Pop Tunes Drums and Pop Tunes Keyboard, both work on their own or with preset songs and while Atticus (he’s 5) says they’re too “small” for him that didn’t stop him from playing on the instruments the entire time. Zane (2) thought they were fantastic despite his being sick. They kicked me out of the band during the second encore of Free Bird, which is a bunch of bunk if you ask me.
Now the entire band set is drying in the bathroom due to the dozen coats of Lysol I sprayed on them (Lysol did not provide product). Zane’s germs scare me.
Here’s my disclaimer on product reviews: If someone sends me something to review and I like it then I will gladly write about it. If I don’t like the product I’ll return it, and depending on why we didn’t like it I may or may not write that as well. Basically, if we didn’t like it because it was too advanced or something that isn’t necessarily negative I won’t write it up, but if we didn’t like it because it was made from lead and chopped off the cat’s toe then I’ll tell you all about it. I do it because I care.
That’s it for this edition of cup o’random! And now for the catchphrase:
It put the other random in a cup guys out of business!
I never should have started the fart games. It was bound to backfire. I should have known better, but I couldn’t resist. Pulling of one’s finger is a long, time-honored tradition in pseudo-civilized society, and one might argue that the passing of it is indeed innate.
The boys are good at it. Too good. One fart led to another and now we all have pinkeye. Damn the pillows.
Now, I’m no doctor, but if pinkeye can be passed by gas in the movies, it must be true. Hollywood is about the only thing we can trust anymore.
The boys have the worst of it. They woke yesterday with crud in their sockets and went to bed with their eyes caked shut like Rocky after a dance with Clubber Lane. They just laid there, begging to be cut.
Tricia and I woke up this morning with little nuggets of carrier monkey poop in our respective eyes. I fear we may have it, too.
I passed her in the hall at 6 in the morning, her eyes were red and puffy. “You have wife eyes,” I told her.
She ignored me.
Damn, “30 Rock” sure is funny.
She went to work, hoping she didn’t have the highly contagious ailment. I made coffee and started cleaning.
The boys watched Elf through swollen eyes and made the complaints of children who are suffering. Now and again I’d hear a laugh emerge from their den of disease followed by the weakened shouts of exhausted pride.
“He farted!” was their constant cry.
It made my eyes itch every time.
Read about our other adventure from last night at DadCentric. It doesn’t involve farts.