Margie had the day off, so we went to lunch with the kids to celebrate. One of my tricks for getting the baby home without falling asleep is to give him an ice cream cone with a scant scraping of vanilla on the rim to crunch on in the car. Mama thought that was too bland and boring (projection) and vetoed my tried and true system, offering him a cone filled with chocolate ice cream. I laughed, teased her, and moaned all the way home as I watched the destruction in the back seat. She was certain he would be fine. He thoroughly enjoyed himself, licking the cone, digging his fingers in it, painting the sticky chocolate all over his face, hair, and new thrift store score, spring Zutano pants. I love being right, but this was a fairly high price.
He most certainly did not fall asleep, though.
In other news, if anyone has been listening to me complain about how tired I am, how bad a sleeper Truman has turned into, or how I am mother to the spawn of Satan, I apologize. I noticed just now that unbeknownst to me Truman cut yet another tooth in the night. This brings him up to four on top and three on the bottom. Poor little dude.
All the kids had very mild chicken pox last week, which explains the odd rashes I was seeing. I thought it wasn’t an option, given that they were all vaccinated for it. I’m thankful to have checked in with a friend who’s a pediatric nurse, as my go-to pain med for them all is ibuprofen and that can cause some serious problems with the pox virus.
I got chicken pox when I was twelve and living in Switzerland. I was in English class when I realized I was scratching too much. I got to spend the day in the infirmary of the private school we attended, sunk down into feather duvets covered in starched white covers on a metal framed bed behind curtains. A nurse in an apron and cap brought me water and took my temperature. I was sorry to see my dad arrive to fetch me home.