some people call it mucous but it’snot
so…I don’t know if we own anything that isn’t covered in baby mucous.
Sammy has been sick all weekend long.
Poor little man. What started out as a little drooly cough that we chalked up to teething blossomed into a full-fledged if-I-were-a-cat-I’d-cough-up-a-hairball cough.
Trying to entertain a ten-month old with a cold is kinda like orchestrating a peace agreement and cease-fire in the Gaza Strip: both side come to the table, exhausted and willing to work it out, and then some rouge agent fires a snot rocket across the room and we’re back at square one.
I’ve earned two parenting merit badges this weekend, though:
1. Every one of my pockets, in every pair of pants I own — even ones I didn’t wear — have some sort of snot-filled tissue in it. The next step is going for my advanced badge where I stuff the tissues up the sleeve of my shirt.
2. I’ve consumed more hours of The Wiggles than there were in the entire weekend — our house must sit on some sort of wormhole in the fabric of space and time and I used it to absorb a 500-hour immersion crash course in Austrailian childhood culture. Beauty mate!
I did, however, managed to watch the first two hours of 24…in 20 minute installments, as well as the Pats game — the first half started to make me wish I could be covered in even more mucous, because that would’ve felt more productive, but the outcome is all that matters.
so…just like the Patriots, Sammy appears to be on the path to Indy this morning, if Indy can be understood to mean feeling better in this situation.