Tonight, the part of The Bug will be played by Papa

…and the cold virus will reprise his role as The Windshield.

Those of you with kids know how wonderful it is to hear them call your name. It affirms that they love you and want to be near you and that you probably have something they want to take from you, like keys, food, or anything that can be smashed or shredded.

Sometimes, however, all that they want from you is to know that you’re there with them, some comfort, perhaps a lullaby, and to press their nose into your shirt and wipe ropes of snot across your shoulders. And that’s how it is with 3B tonight. As he was last night, he’s congested, and waking up because he’s having trouble breathing and his throat is raw from the draining and mouth breathing.

Unlike last night, when he got up and fussed for a minute before going back to sleep, he’s woken up tonight screaming bloody murder and crying crocodile tears and calling out, “Dada. Dada. Dada. Dada. Dada. Dada. Dada…” until I go in and pick him up. Being sick sucks enough when you know what’s going on; I’m sure that it’s infuriating when it’s a mystery.

It doesn’t help when we attempt transnasal endoscopic duramatter removal with the evil blue snot sucking bulb. Singing my favorite lullaby, which is also one of his, does help, however, as it has in the past, when the situation was a bit more perilous.

His screaming and crying was exceptional, as though he were not just frustrated at being awake, but also in pain, so we went to give him some Motrin that I had just picked up. It seemed like an impossibly long time that Mama was gone to get it, even taking into consideration the fact that she had to find it, open the box, and use a reciprocating saw to get through the safety packaging. The extra time was because it turns out that I had picked up the children’s Motrin rather than the infant’s, and that the children’s Motrin comes with a cup rather than a dropper for dispensing it.

Intuiting that using the cup would lead to catastrophe, Mama had to quickly figure the conversion of units from the cup to the units on the dropper from the nearby infant’s Tylenol bottle that she hurriedly washed out. In doing so, she ended up miscalculating, and we ended up giving 3B less than half a dose of Motrin. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem to have made much difference, as he dropped off to sleep in Mama’s arms shortly after that and we were able to lay him back down for the time being.

Given how the evening has gone so far, I’m going to bed right now, so I’ll be well rested in 20 minutes, when 3B is back up, screaming my name. Because, no matter how much I may make light of it, it cuts me to the quick to hear him cry like that, and there is nothing more important to me than his comfort and well-being. Besides, I can always catch up on my sleep when I write my next post.

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  • Get well, 3B!

    I’ve always thought it was funny how something as “inocuous” and “non-life-threatening” as a cold was so damn uncomfortable.

  • And I don’t mean funny in a “ha ha ha” kind of way!

  • aw, poor baby. Feel better 3B!

  • I swear I should invent a disposable shirt made out of Kleenex for just these ocassions. I know all to well about those ropes of snot. Propping my little one up with a firm pillow always seemed to help a bit, or if you’re nervous about that, stick the pillow under the mattress on one side.

  • Feel better!!! And rest up!

  • Rest assured that there will be plenty of time to catch up on sleep.

    Sadly, though, that time will come at the exact moment 3B feels better and insists that you partake in some energetic play-time.

    Good times.

  • All: Thanks for all of your good wishes. 3B must have read them, and had his spirits buoyed by them, because he was feeling better this evening.

    Vampdaddy: D’oh! I think you just jinxed me.