in which I make a mountain out of a molehill

A couple of weeks ago, Daniel decided he wasn't going to nap anymore, no thankyou. Popping off to sleep a the end of the day? No problemo, but taking a damn nap anytime between the am and the pm, that'd be a negative. Having assessed the situation and confirming that, despite Daniel's suggestion that he was being eaten alive by red ants and/or being rolled in broken glass every time I wrapped him up and tucked him in for a bit of daytime shuteye, nothing obvious was contributing to his aversion to the nap (and by 'aversion', I mean 'shit fit') I turned to the mothers around me with older babies, and as it turns out they'd all been through similar at around the five to six month mark, which Daniel was now, and for all apparently, it wasn't just a phase, it only got worse. Awesome.

Most of the books I'd read advocated some version of crying it out, be it controlled or passing out from sheer exhaustion. Brian Symon, in particular, practices his special brand of magic from birth. A friend of mine even consulted with him, the result being a happier baby because of the adequate sleep he's now getting. The other mothers also agreed that Symons presented an effective panacea for their megamouthed, non sleeping infants. Three days they all told me, three days to a happier, healthier baby.

Other books suggested gentler methods, and I was all over that, but short of taking a warm, relaxing bath with him three times a day, plus one more later in the evening, tweaking Daniel's already solid, warm and fuzzy pre nap routine did shit all. Thus, it was with a heavy heart and a stop watch in hand that the decision was made to enter the dark realm of controlled crying.

Controlled crying isn't something you can be half-arsed about. You're either in or out, with no half way. If you give in because you can't stand the crying (oh, the crying) you've just reinforced the behaviour you're trying to amend, so once you decide to do it, that's it. There's no going back.

Two weeks in and it hasn't worked. In fact, things are actually decidely worse. I've either completely fucked up the simple instructions of five minutes, ten minutes, and et cetera, or Daniel is what the books would call 'resistent'. I'm not a complete idiot so I'm thinking maybe the latter. Whatever the reason, naptimes have escalated from being pot luck, sometimes a wee bit difficult and sometimes not, to all of them being a fucking nightmare. While getting to sleep had been challening, what with dude waking up and waking up and waking up, now it's impossible. He used to bleat forlornly until I patted him back to sleep, and now he wails and screams and goes over all red faced and sweaty. As the times increases by each five minute increment, so does his intensity, by about a factor of three hundred each time so rather than be reassured by my intermittent appearance, Daniel is enraged and upset, or worse, terrified and abandoned, I don't know. It's awful. It really is, and now the boy simply will not sleep. He was awake for fourteen hours straight the other day, with two forty five minute screaming sessions in between, then he popped off to sleep at 9pm and stayed asleep til he began his other new annoying as fuck habit: waking up at 5am for playtime.

I don't know what to do. I've gone from confidently parenting my little boy to feeling like shit about the crap job I'm doing. I hate that I'm so black and white about this. I hate that, when he's crying, I don't like him very much at all. There seems to be a fatal flaw in my design because while my baby's distress is purpoted to rouse my maternal instincts and make me want to rush in there and kiss away his tears, it's more inclined to rouse my desire for a neat scotch whiskey and a ticket out of here.

Last night I broke, and rather than tuck my little cherub in, kiss him on the nose and walk away as he's winds his whimper up to a shriek, I stayed with him and petted and shushed til he went off to sleep. He promptly struggled awake again, squawking like a chicken until he was irritating even to himself, but rather than leave him for those five, ten, ad infinitum minutes, I played some lullabies from the doorway, so he couldn't see me, which settled him for as long as the music lasted. We did this over and over and over though, until naptime was over anyway.

This whole thing is getting me down, and it's only one small hurdle in a lifetime of parenting. I don't understand how my feelings can be so mercurial. I have a healthy little boy, who despite being ravenously over tired, is still happy and cheery and playful, and yet despite all the signs that Daniel is thriving in my care, I honestly feel that I've failed him. I worry that, despite the magical times we spend together, he's lost faith, that he feels alone and abandoned and will always carry scars from the several nights where I tried to force him to sleep with no help from me. The books say that babies need to learn how to put themselves to sleep, but what if I've taught him that he can cry forever and no one will come?

The reality is though that it really isn't that bad. Daniel hasn't been crying constantly for the last two weeks. He's been difficult to put down for a nap, missing naptimes completely most of the time, but he's still a cheerful, easy going little man despite being totally sleep deprived. I don't know what my fucking problem is.

where's Daniel?

(a new take on a classic tale)

Mr Bunny doesn't know.

and the bubble bursts

The results of the DNA test were due in next week. That's what was said when we gobbed on a Q-Tip last Thursday, that there'll be a two week wait until the report was ready. Except *da dum* here it is eight days later, and here I am with an official looking reporty thing in my hand.

I wish they took their time on this one because an extra week of living the dream that no one else was involved in Daniel's conception would have been nice. Hell, I wanted an extra lifetime of fine tuning the details of that particular delusion because seriously, doesn't everyone want a son who's the New Messiah? Think of the possibilities! Think of the free fish!

So anyway, yes. Daniel has a father. Or a sire actually, given that word 'father' suggests some kind of emotional investment and a degree of giving a shit.

Bleah.

I don't want to share.

(yeah, yeah, yeah)

a product review, I guess

I practically amputated my thumb while cleaning the 'bathroom' the other day (if anyone can work out how in the name of fuck I did it, can you let me know? Because, what the fuck?)(and by 'bathroom', I mean 'toilet'. 'Bathroom' is merely an American inspired euphamism in case anyone's ears fall off at the mention of The Place Where Poo Goes To Die). There's a huge chunk missing from the fingerprinty bit and it hurts like a muthafudger. Granted, my shit don't stink, but that's no guarantee that airborne (eww) bacteria (ew)(eww) isn't making a new home for itself around the john seat every time I drop the kids off at the pool. To whit, ew.

After having disinfected the living shit (literally)(EWW!) out of the remaining stump, I turned to the Liquid Bandage I'd bought (probably only because there was a sale! sign underneath it on the pharmacy shelf)(I can't resist a bargain)(which it probably wasn't)(but anyway) a while back for just such an occasion, and tried to seal the wound with that. Folks, save your dimes because "clear, flexible, breathable seal that keeps out water, dirt and germs"? I think no, not at all, bitches. I did however, spill about four gallons of the activator stuff on the hand that was doing the applicating and that stuff is inpenetrable. And squicky. It literally took paint stipper and a wire bristle brush to wash that unctuous layer of squick off. Well not literally literally, but it may well have done, suffice to say that if anyone has a bank job they want done, call me.

parenty stuff

Daniel and I trotted off to do our bit for the DNA testing required to determine who the little tyke's father is. I mean, there were so many men in that bar that night. That was a joke, by the way. There were only a couple, ahem.

On that particular day, we'd earlier been fart-arsing around at the child car seat vendor's place, getting his diamond encrusted one adjusted to actually fit his scrummy self, hallelujah, so we were early for our appointment at the laboratory. Daniel needed a nap and I needed to waste forty five minutes, so we blew the cobwebs off his stroller and took him and it for a walk through the Botanic Gardens.

This city is the size of a thumb tack and the Gardens are a mere twenty minutes away from where I live, and yet I haven't been there since that school trip we took in grade five. I thoroughly enjoyed our stroll and am now entertaining the fantasy of visiting them more often. It's a beautiful place in which to create beautiful memories, and if I can give Daniel a multitude of those, then I can tell him to quit his whining when he starts carrying on about being the only boy in school without an X-Box.

By the time we returned to the labs, my thighs had had a thorough work out from pushing the little prince back up the steep inclines that had been disguised as gentle slopes on the way in, and the D had had enough of a nap to be quite reasonable about sitting around while I read the latest WHO magazine in the waiting area. Soon enough though, photos were taken, statutory declarations were signed, and in a style not unlike that of the CSIs, swabs were inserted into our mouths. Daniel fucking loved it. LOVED it. I'm not kidding. He'd developed a bit of a leery stare as proceedings unfolded, and wasn't thrilled about the big, giant Q-Tip being swirled around in my cake hole, so I thought he was going to lose his shit on us when it was his turn. Au contraire, mes amis. Dude leapt onto that swab like a champ, and enjoyed the experience so much I thought we were going to have to put an Adults Only rating onto the paperwork. When the sodden mess was extracted from his mouth, he started to cry until the technician took advantage of his wailing maw and plugged him right back up again with another one. Cue more pornstar action, followed by a resounding *thuck* as the swab was extracted from his unobliging little sucktacular mouth.

So that was it, two swabs each and a two week wait for the results. I hope they come back confirming that I really am his mother because I've grown quite fond of the little guy.

thinking

that being an older mother is most difficult during the tender times you spend with your baby, when he's gazing adoringly into your eyes and reaches out to gently touch your face, because if you weren't as old as Methuselah, there wouldn't be all that excess flesh hanging around, so you wouldn't have Basset Hound jowls for him to grab onto and pull so far off your face that when they ping back, they practically knock you unconscious.

I'm also thinking about gift horses and mouths and that, as an older mother, I should be glad that they ping back at all.

my son the ostrich

Now that he's a wriggler, Daniel's sleeping habits suggest he is a candidate for being superglued to the bed on his back.

Case in point: I found him asleep with the bedcovers over his head the other day, possibly to re-enact the famous Blanket event of 2003, sans the balcony dangle and associated superfreak, but most likely to deprive himself of all that lovely, lovely oxygen and get the free buzz as, once his bedclothes were promptly eighty sixed in favor of layering the boy up like a lasagne before bedtime, he subsequently tried stuffing his head under a pillow. With his Inspector Gadget-like arms giving him extendo-abilities and leading him down that particular path of self destruction, every skerrick of anything within a ten foot radius was removed so that Mr Deebs was sleeping in the bedroom equivilant of a barren wasteland. Dude was determined though, to not be foiled in his mission to, I dunno, turn blue? and this morning, he'd flipped himself over and buried his face in the mattress.

Aargh.

drugs versus herbs

When I first started having panic attacks and anxiety an' shite, my doctor jumped for joy and asked "Now will you go on antidepressants?".

He always wanted to put me on them, and I was always all "You wot? Why? But I'm not depressed, fool".

I have no idea why I kept seeing that fucking idiot, but that's beside the point. Or another story, come to think of it. Hmm. Anyway, after that first panic attack scared me enough to do anything to avoid having another one, I started taking Cipramil.

Thing was, and my doctor knew this and it should have been okay, it had only been around a month since I stopped talking St John's Wort.

[cue ominous music]

The other thing was that my doctor didn't suggest I taper up, rather, he thought that I should start on a regular size dose and yeah, that was a good idea. Hell, his mad prescribing skilz were probably the real reason for this little anecdote, and I should probably think about changing the title from 'drugs v herbs' to 'my doctor needs to buy a clue'.

In any case, it may also have been that four or so weeks wasn't enough time to wash the herb out of my system because within the three days I was on the antiD, I'd experienced the shakes, the enormous migraine, the panic attack from fucking HELL where I couldn't even get off the sofa for something like four hours, and the ambulance ride to the hospital after the world went all ookie and drippy and began to undulate.

I was in Serotonin syndrome, but despite fitting virtually every diagnostic criteria apart from 'coma', the fuckers at the hospital thought I was feeling strange due to being off my face on some street drug. They checked me for track marks and when they found none, treated me like shit anyway because I may have injected into my eyeball or something. Then they left me in a room on my own for eight hours, and while those peckerheads in the ER twiddled their thumbs and cursed me for taking up 'real' space, I could have died.

I didn't, yo, but I did get me a leetle case of PTSD about the whole fucked up event. To whit: I still have a roaring medication phobia (which is kind of ironic considering the vast amounts of illegal crap I used to throw down my throat - and it was the legal shit that finally toasted me) and get kind of agitated when I think about those fools in the ER.

ditto

I wrote this pretty much word for word somewhere else, but as I have this pesky, time consuming motherhood thing going on right now...mostly though, it's because I have this instatiable urge to update, but without the equal and requisite urge to, you know, write anything, so I'm kinda fucked. So going with old two birds, one stone, minimal entertainment adage, here it is: today's entry. Woo.

(you only have yourselves to blame, you non commenting non commenters)

Bowen Therapy

This article, while a leetle bit too flowery for my liking, might be able to give you an idea of what it is.

If I can address a few of the more out there statements though, because fucksake, I'm a bowen therapist, not a hippy flowerchild.

It empowers the body’s own healing resources...

Well yes it does, but I prefer to say it encourages the body to heal because the 'empowering' in this context suggests to me that there's some kind of magical component to the therapy.

There isn't.

It works on a purely mechanical level. That's not to say that those who subscribe to working with energy can't also do so when working with Bowen, but for those who poo poo the idea of universal energy and shit, I worry that we alientate them by suggesting that Bowen is some kind of magic.

Bowen is an all embracing vibrational energy therapy...

Uh, yeah, okay.

I'm gonna give you a quick anatomy lesson to explain this, okay?

All of our hundreds of muscles are covered by a single layer of what's called 'muscle fascia'. This fascia fits over the muscles much like a body stocking, and allows for free and fluid movement of the muscles both alone, and over each other.

When there is an issue with the muscle, it 'sticks' to the fascia, so the muscle becomes contracted, or knotted, or impinges on a nerve....whatever discomfort you're feeling can be explained away by shortening of a muscle or muscle group.

Because the fascia is, like a body stocking is, a single unit, when there is tension on it over one muscle, it will always indirectly affect the tension of it over the whole body. Capiche? That's why Bowen is touted to be about balance. We work with that muscle fascia, releasing the tension and allowing the muscles to lengthen and relax to where nature intended, before we had injury and stress creeping into our lives and affecting how we feel.

Now,this vibrational energy crap: Imagine the fascia is like a guitar string. Traditional massage can be likened to pushing on that string, or running a finger down it. It won't create a note, it will just pull on the string. Bowen, otoh, 'plucks' that guitar string, and like that would evoke a vibration resulting in a note of music, Bowen evokes a 'vibration' down the muscle fascia which results in the muscle becoming 'unstuck' from the fascia. .

Simply put, unlike traditonal massage, we work across the muscle fibre, rather than along it.

The precise location of the Bowen moves correlate markedly with the latest research into the meridian energy system, acu-points and myofascial trigger point therapy.

Well yes, it does, but it's just a point of fact, not some mysterious discovery.

Observation also suggests the lymphatic system is greatly affected by this technique.

As a bowen therapist, duh. It doesn't 'suggest' it, we know it does it.

Bowen encourages the flow of lymph. When there is muscle tension, there is also congestion from the accumulation of toxins. Allowing the muscle to relax naturally promotes the re-establishement of lymph flow and so, the removal of those toxins from the system. That's why we encourage ourt clients to drink, drink, drink water after a session. So they don't feel like they've been hit by a truck the day after.

The treatment is holistic as, referring back to the muscle fascia and it being affected all over by tension in one injured area, if we treat one area, it's always going to ultimately affect the entire body.

I became a Bowen Therapist after two sessions as a client literally changed my life. I'd been in pain for over twenty years, and now I'm not. I've since also become a personal trainer and gym instructor, when before Bowen, there would have been no way I'd have been able to do any of the physical feats I can do now.

At the time, I figured I'd tried every thing else, what the hell, why not throw more good money after bad and see that this doesn';t work either. Except that it did.

My results may not be typical, but imo, they're relective of the potential everyone has to feel better than they do today.

(Also, I'm not a doctor so make sure you consult your doctor first so that I don't get sued by some random party for making bogus medical claims on the internet. The end)

in which there are a lot of segues

TV is supposed to not make you want to throw yourself under a truck, so rather than get depressed about not being a rich and pretty young thing living in Orange County, I've avoided switching on to watch the hijinks of those who are. More recently though, I developed either a death wish or a sense of self that goes beyond being validated by having a late model Mustang parked in my driveway, because while the rest of the world is watching this season's OC, I've been busy plowing through the first series on DVD. My review? As much as I'm enjoying it, and I am, I'm hating Mischa Barton. What in the name of giddy fuck is she so famous for? Bland looks? Wooden acting? What?

Inquiring minds need to know.

*****

I'm going to the dentist for the seventy billionth time today. This should be the last of the excessive number of dental appointments I've had so far to get a simple crown fitted. Two actually, given that the simple crown from November last year was so simple that it's one of the two muthafuckers being cemented into mouth today. They were supposed to be fitted last week but as I was dripping with enough cold germs to fell a small nation, I gave them a reprieve and rescheduled for this week. Then the temporary crown broke, leaving behind what amounted to a Gilette GII and several sharp knives in the back teethular region of my cake hole. So I ended up in the dentist's chair anyway, having the fucking thing puttied up so it would last until today, which it didn't, but rather than put myself in that damn chair another time, I dealt. And, I might add, I've done a stellar job of avoiding severing my tongue, a la Children of the Corn ("gaaah, gaaah!").

Having mentioned my teeth, let's talk about my smile. Now that I've had the boy, I'm potentially able to undergo the surgical equivilant of a punch in the face some time next year. I thought it prudent to follow up the first opinion with a second, and lo! the diagnosis of Adult Onset Muppet Freak Syndrome has been confirmed. I don't look like nature intended me to, and it bothers me that Daniel will probably resemble what I was meant to look like, so he'll end up not looking like me at all.

Second Opinion Surgeon is internationally known for his achievements in cranio-facial surgery, to the point that googling his very common name spits him out as the first result. Point being that if he thinks I could benefit form getting my stupid face fixed, then I'm seriously going to consider it.

Having taken that line break to serious consider it, I'm now in the process of following this up with his team because as much as I once wanted a nice smile, what I really want now is a chance to look like my son.

*****

Next on the agenda: Stef extracted his head from his arse long enough for Legal Services to arrange genetic testing to confirm his, uh, contribution.

I'm hoping the results confirm 'immaculate' so that Daniel and I can forget all about this pesky Father Of Child stuff, and get on with the serious business of preparing for his career as The New Messiah. In the meantime, I'll be conferring with PayPal about installing a 'donate' button for all the gifts of frankinsense and myrrh.

*****

Speaking of the boy: he's still cute, but good GOD, what is up with him today? Dude is being a major grizzlehead. Teething? Probably, in which case, consider this another segue.

precious cargo

Having just dropped half a G on a new carseat for Daniel, I'm still blinking a little like a bunny in the headlights.

I'd wandered into the store yesterday thinking I'd be spending a modest two hundred bucks on something more suitable than the idiotic capsule arrangement the boy has been in since birth. Not in in, mind. I do let him out from time to time, usually when he needs to drive home because I'm too drunk, which is a lot of the time, so actually, he's only in the capsule arrangement when I'm driving. Yeah.

Having cleared that little bit of confusion, the capsule. So they're safe and they save babies' lives and yadda yadda yadda, so they're probably not idiotic at all, but still. Ick. More recently, getting Daniel in and out of the dang fool thing has been an exercise in wriggler wrangling. Granted, I'm probably the idiot who hadn't worked out how to adjust the straps appropriately, but having to ask Daniel to hold his breath and suck in his tummy so I could strap him in was getting old. Also, dude doesn't respond to directions well.

There were two hundred dollar jobbies in the store yesterday, and they all conformed to the Australian Standard, which is the toughest in the world apparently, and then there was the Meridian. It sounds quite festive and it also looks very schmick. I went for the khaki and beige number - which looks surprisingly shitty in that link. It doesn't go with my car's grey interior, but pish. Its Ubercool In Real Life good looks shat all over the black and grey seat (which looked surprisingly shitty in real life). This puppy conforms to the same standard (remember: toughest in world, etc) as the others- and then surpasses them, which gives you your high five, right there, buddy.

So while I'm still in shock, I'm still happy to fork out the less than two bucks extra a week (the equation is, the extra three hundred bucks for the seat / the probably three years we'll be using it = woo!) it is to have my baby's dimpled butt sitting in what is, if the Standard is any indication, possibly one of the safest car seats in the world.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand...fuck I'm boring.

working title goes here

You know what's really weird? I think in blog. Oh, I know I update once per millenium, but because I'm a scarce updater who's also anal retentive, I find myself composing entries in my head because, in reference to that anal retetive thing, I should be writing here in order to make this [insert a word here that isn't 'blog' because I feel kinda weird referring to this as a 'blog' because, in my opinion, 'blog' should be reserved for use by plumbers and gynecologists and the like] not suck so monumentally. The entries I write in my head aren't too shabby either, it's just that when I sit at my desk, crack my knuckles concert pianist style, and prepare to put it all down, my jaw goes slack and I end up with no fucking idea about what it was that had been composed so studiously in my head.

I think what happens is, I think in blog speak, and then I begin thinking in blog speak about what I was thinking, then I keep thinking about what I was thinking about, and then I keep thinking about what I was thinking which was about what I was thinking about thinking, and then I keep thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking, and with all the thinking that gets thought about, I forget what it was I was thinking.

It's funny how, and maybe it's only me (or maybe it's the anal retentiveness)(which is probably code for OCD anyway), if I find myself doing something for a period of time, I start to think lijke what it is I'm obssessively doing. Per essempio, the Rubik's Cube. I couldn't get that fucking thing out of my head for weeks, for not only was I too dumb to solve it, I was anal retentive...uh, okay, OCD enough to not want to put it down, so I spent hours upon hours thinking of what moves would go where to solve that fucker. And then my thinking began to take on the structure of Rubik's Cube shifts. Gah, I can't explain it, but the same thing happened once when I spent way too much time scrolling down pages on the internet. My thoughts started to scroll.

Weird.

Re the Rubiks' Cube: I spent forever trying to solve that bitch, then one day I came home and the fucker was all wrong and my system for solving it (which obviously worked for shit) was totally not there any more. After regaining consciousness, I asked my mum what the fuck happened to my damn cube, though what I probably said was 'um, excuse me, mum...?' while tugging my forelock and trying not to make her mad (and there it is, another journal entry right there that will likely never get written, along with the ne'er to be written entries about how I realised I'm like that with her over the last however many weeks it is between me being thirty five weeks pregnant and her leaving a week or two ago), and she waved her hand in the air and told me that some five year old visited while I was not hunkering over the damn cube, well on my way to solving that bastard out, so she gave her my cube to play with. So yeah, way to go respecting my shit ma, but of course all I said was 'Oh'. I never touched that Rubik's Cube again, by the way. Ever.

And look! This has turned into a tragic entry about my issues, weeee!

******

Daniel is being a bit of a pill today, having woken up with a sniffle which, culpa mia, so I'm pandering to the little diva with grace. Oy though, when he's not being held (which today is a combination event of me holding the wriggly little sucker and him trying to rip of my ears), having deemed the bouncer to be worthy of a hand to brow tantrum today, he's on the floor and low grade whining to be flipped over onto his back so he can turn himself back onto his stomach so he can get stuck and start the grizzling to be flipped onto his back again. Every three words or so actually. Dude could do with a winch, and I could do with a winch and bottle of vodka.

With the weather getting cooler and half the population of this city being stupid enough to go out and about saying "Yay! Look at me! I should be home in bed but I'm out! Because I'm Tough! When what I really am is a Fucking Idiot! Because I'm dripping cold germs all over the place for everyone to pick up and smear on their nasal membranes so that twenty billion others can get colds too and do the same thing! And so on and so forth! Yippee!" (fuckers), I bought some saline drops and a nasal aspirator in the event the lad caught a cold. He did, so this was the day to, as per the instructions on the pack, lay the boy down with Miss Kitty (relax, it's a stuffed toy)(to whit, thankyou Hart) under his shoulders so his head would lean back, allowing me free access to gently place two to five drops of the saline down his crusty little nostrils, then leaving him in this postion for one to two minutes, before gently introducing the flexible tip of the aspirator into his nose to suck out the boogers.

Apparently the test baby for the author of those directions was in a medically induced coma because how it actually went was: Lay the boy down with Miss Kitty under his shoulders, watch him flip his head from side to side to side to side to side to side to side to side to side to side to side to side etc, randomly squirt a gallon or so of saline in the general direction of the boy's face, place foot on boy's chest in an attempt to leave him in that position for, aw fuckit, where's the aspirator? Watch the blur that is now the boy's head. Scratch own head before squinting eyes for focus. Zoom in like a hawk on a field mouse, with the aspirator in hand and a determined look on your face. Make contact with, I dunno, a chin? Give up, knock back a tequila, and enlist the neighbours to join you in a Mexican Wave when the boy sneezes out his body weight in boogers.

more shit you can use

PhotoStamps!

As our postal service has an over inflated sense of itself and no wish to indulge besotted parents with such whimsical pieces of fluff like their child's face on a postage stamp (which, weeee!), I'm going to have to make do with licking the back of the deebs' head to get the same sense of satisfaction you all can get by shoving an envelope into a mail box.

guest author

m 0 g 0,
z nl uuuhu ji

"njm'...............................................................................
...................................lllllllllllll22333333333333333333333333
3.

teeth etc

Little babies obviously have really big immune systems because while I lay here dying, Daniel has been completely unaffected by a virus that seemingly encourages one's brain to explode before leaking out via one's nostrils.

The boy hasn't, however, avoided the rigors of teething. For a few weeks now, the lad has been chewing the crap out of his fingers, his thumb, his toys, my fingers, the washcloth, a towel, the floor, three wise men, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree, all at the same time and with great determination. Until the other night though, any discomfort he's been feeling has been appeased by making a sodden mess of the veritable party he's been able to shove into his mouth. Dude is only small but already he's proving he has great potential should anyone require the entire universe be made damp. Anyhoo, come Thursday, his cheeks turned bright red, his fists were frantically being shoved into his mouth, and the drool was stupendous.

Lesson learned: while teething rings may soothe mothers, what with the nifty way they can be cooled in the fridge, thus helping to gently ease their babies into a toothed world, they don't work for shit.

Firstly, there's the issue of getting all of those fingers out of the child's mouth when one is frantically jigging a baby on one's shoulder in a vain attempt to console the screaming creature infant, when rather than the grappling hooks, winches, safety nets and quite possibly, the jaws of life one actually needs, all one has to work with is two hands. Assuming the digit extraction is possible, then there's the issue of placing the teething ring into the child's mouth, without releasing the two handed grip that was needed in the first instant to keep what amounts to thousand wiggling fingers out of the child's gob. Assuming one can achieve that, as one needs to explain to the kid that chewing, not licking, the teething ring is the ticket, one also needs a degree in gobbledeegook.

None of this mattered in the end, for situation Freak My Shit Out left as abruptly as it had arrived, and my little guy happily returned to the serious business of being cute, which he does very well, by the way.