ETC: Still Getting a Grippe

There's just nothing like the satisfaction you get from flogging an already mediocre pun to a shiny, glistening pulp.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that I never reach the end of my tether, but I will tell you that, normally, the rope is pretty long. Yesterday, not only was I on intimate terms with the end of my rope, but I was flirting with the idea of using it as a noose.

By the time Rusty got home from work, laden with the gigantic bag of drugs and cold-related paraphernalia (ask not for whom the nasal bulb tolls... it tolls for thee!) that I'd demanded he pick up before I'd let him in the house, he was greeted by the site of young Master Sam playing quietly (notwithstanding the locomotive-like breathing) in his exersaucer, with me sitting on the floor nearby. Tranquil, no?

On closer examination, the trained observer might notice that my "ponytail" could only technically lay claim to this term by virtue of the fact that there was, in fact, an elastic nestled somewhere in the matted hair on the back of my head. And thanks to Sam's ongoing research into the tensile properties of my various shirts and of the effects of bodily fluids thereon, my once-ordinary t-shirt now made me look like a reject from extra auditions for Flashdance. On the upside, I've learned that tan cords hide drool, mucous, and spit-up stains quite effectively.

But after a shower and dinner (for me) and liberal application of the nasal bulb, infant Dimetap, and Vicks Vaporub (for Sam), we had a passable night and are feeling optimistic about the future.

Status report:

Me: still coughing; looking with ever-increasing longing and weakening resolve at the big bottle of Nyquil in the medicine cabinet, the contents of which will allegedly leak into my breastmilk and turn my child into a crackhead when he grows up

Sam: still wheezing, sneezing, hacking, etcetera; has adopted an uncharacteristic air of philosophical resignation

* * *

On a distantly related note, Wing Chun posted:

I DEMAND PHOTOS OF YOUR CHILD IN HIS HALLOWE'EN COSTUME.

Er, we don't have any. Yes, that's right. It was our only child's first Halloween, a landmark occasion that will never, ever happen again so long as the space-time continuum proceeds to operate in a linear fashion, and we did not celebrate it. We also only videotaped his second bath and the second time he ate solid food. Somebody call Family and Children's Services.

We're planning to make it a clean sweep by forgetting to get a picture of him with Santa, too. (Besides, if I know my boy, he's going to take one look at Santa, burst into ear-splitting howls, and ruin Christmas for every other kid at the mall.)

We had plans. Big plans. First, we were going to put Sam face-out in the baby carrier and attach extra fuzzy legs to it, transforming him into a hairy, scary spider. Rusty, who would be carrying him, was to be wrapped in netting, as if he were Sam's trapped prey, waiting to be consumed. Quite the metaphor, huh?

Then Rusty was going to dress as Mister Spock, and Sam was going to be Captain Kirk, boldly going where no nerd-baby has gone before.

And THEN Rusty was going to dress all in black and carry a black broom and go as -- get this -- the Grim Sweeper. Sam, also dressed in black, was to be his apprentice.

But of course none of this transpired because Sam got sick. And it's hard enough changing the diaper of a squirmy, cranky, sick baby without mucking about with extra legs and tricorders. So on Halloween night we took one look at his gooey, mucous-besmeared face and declared him to be Slimer from Ghostbusters.

But I do want to give you something, so here's a photo of Sam and Rusty in matching seasonally appropriate attire. Any of you wanting a higher-res version so that you can make this your desktop wallpaper, you know where to reach me.