At 12:45 a.m. last night Brian said, "Let ME post about this day." "Yeah," I replied. "You can call it 'live blogging from the pit of hell.'"
Of course that's not true. Of course it's not. There are way worse things than what we're doing right now. But at 12:45 this morning, it was hard to think of any of them.
Did I mention yesterday Asher is sick? Sick is a euphemism for wretchedly miserable. He cries every time he swallows, gags and spits out any medicine, eats only ice chips and popsicles (and only after extensive begging from his mother), and asked at nine this morning, "Night-night? Please?" He has the virus from hell (only evil forces would conceive of covering a baby's throat in blisters), and there is absolutely nothing to be done but think up ways to keep him hydrated and wait it out.
Brian stayed home from work yesterday, and between Silas, whose little leg was sore from his vaccine, but who doesn't understand that kicking in response to the pain only makes it hurt worse, and Asher's horrible throat thing, neither of us went longer than ten minutes in a 36 hour period without holding a baby. I do not exaggerate. At 8:45 last night Brian loaded the whole family up to drive around the neighborhood, hoping they would fall asleep in their car seats. It didn't work. Silas got hungry and Asher started coughing so bad that Brian had to pull off for emergency ice chips. Asher slept for about an hour when he got home, but woke up at 10:30 wailing inconsolably. Only going outside to wave at the moon distracted him long enough to calm him down. If you had driven past our house at 11:45 last night, you would have seen Brian pacing the street with Asher in his stroller while I fed Silas (who had finally settled back into the normal demands of an infant). I could tell when they had turned back toward the house because I could hear Asher sobbing from the street. Back and forth, back and forth, like a little siren. I am sure we woke the neighbors.
Finally we tricked him into drinking some water. How did we do it? I put ice water in my water cup, the kind with a big straw that he's normally not offered, and asked him to show Daddy how he drank out of my cup like a big boy. Then, show Silas how he could do it. Show your blanket. Show the moon. Show Taylor. That worked. He was so proud of drinking like a big boy that he forgot how much it hurt to swallow. Once his throat was soothed by the cold, he could swallow his medicine again. He fell asleep, exhausted, at 1:30 a.m.
Silas was ready to eat again at 3.
That's all the time I have - Asher is awake again. Send all of your prayers for healthy throats and hydrated children (and infants who do not catch the virus from hell) our way.