"Monday" actually has nothing at all to do with "Funday."
Aidan woke up at 1:30am, throwing up the remaining portion of his corndog-and-a-half-with-a-side-of-Gatorade.
He came in to give me a play-by-play, including how he diligently told the dog to move, because she, quote, "wasn't going to like what she had to see." I'm very thankful for this: not the throwing up, but the fact that he didn't throw up on the dog. I'm not sure I would've taken the time to consider this, given the circumstance.
I told Bub he'd have to stay away from the baby today, and in doing so he also needed to make sure he got plenty of rest, which would include an afternoon nap when the baby and I went down. Check, check, and check. (The kid is definitely sick. Ordinarily, if I even hinted at a nap, it would be considered the ultimate act of treason toward his seven-year-old self.)
He ate a piece of toast for breakfast, but his fever killed his appetite. Around lunchtime, I went in to check on him and the poor guy was definitely two shades of toasty. Having no Children's Medicine in the house, I had two options: he could down approximately a bottle of infant medicine, or take half a dose of adult Advil to get the fever down. Knowing how syrupy-sweet the infant medicine is, I decided the best thing for his belly would be one little brown Advil.
Of course, this is the time when I realize that the only Advil we have in the house are the large, green liquid caps, which even Richard has a hard time taking.
We tried it head-on: put the pill in your mouth and swallow. This was not happening and resulted in one gooey green thing being spit into my hand, sort of like the inside of a Mike n' Ike after you carefully remove the icing portion with your front teeth. That was no good. The second attempt also failed, which was to put it in a spoonful of applesauce. I'm still stumped at how this didn't work, because I thought it was a helluva good idea. The third attempt, which was actually the exact same thing as the first attempt, finally worked.
Or so we thought, until we looked at the bottom of the water bottle to see the green gel tab down at the bottom. Aidan looked shocked, considering I'd already congratulated him for swallowing the pill.
"What in the world? How did THAT get there?" he asked, with a generous and sincere helping of confusion.
"I don't know, buddy," I replied. "I don't know." My only guess is that it jumped ship somewhere after the lips but before the esophagus.
The boy was scorching, and I was worried. Plan B was out the window, considering that's for birth control, so we went to Plan C: let's try a different pill. The only other suitable thing was a cold tablet, which thankfully went down with no issues. This time, both of us were ecstatic. To nap he went.
Meanwhile, back in Gotham City, the wee one decided he'd take a nice, light poop in his britches while he was supposed to be napping. That's fine: there's an app for that. It's called the "quick change," and it happens right there in the pack n' play and he's none the wiser. All was well ... until I walked away.
Don't get me wrong: I remember a little thing called "separation anxiety" when Aidan was just a lad. I can remember taking him to Grammie's house, and having to sneak out the door, him being none the wiser. What I do NOT remember, however, is the wailing I heard today when I walked away from the playpen. Ripped my heart right out of my chest, it did! I felt like the biggest asshole of a parent in the whole world. Remember back to the rattlesnake, how I had to tell my legs to move? It was just like that, only this was happening in the comfort of my own home.
Now, listen. I'm all for natural selection, or instinct, or whatever it is you want to call it that helps us function as human beings and gets us from point A to point B, but what the hell kind of feature is this? Are you kidding me? Apparently in the wild, moms never got a chance to eat, bathe, or use the toilet without a 7-month-old Cling-On dictating their every move. Again, ancestors: I'm not really sure how I got here, but thanks, Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Grandmother, for not killing and eating and using for shoes my Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Whatever. Separation anxiety? What purpose does this serve? The "don't forget me in the woods, Ma, lest a bear eat me" survival instinct?
After continuing to walk to the door and, further, to the back porch, I continued to smoke cigarette after cigarette, all-the-while belittling my ability as a mother. What kind of (expletive) mother leaves their helpless little (expletive) baby inside the (expletive) playpen while they're sobbing for them to get the (expletive) back here right now, you rotten (expletive) of a mom?
This one, that's who.
Needless to say, three minutes later, the wailing stopped.
Okay, I'm tooting my own horn. It was more like 45 seconds. Whatever.
He forgot all about me.
Why, you ungrateful little (expletive).