Anyway. The reason I bring my sordid memory up? It's because I have been living in my own personal hell the past couple days. The baby has gone nuclear in his wailing of disdain. Could you tell? I have been trudging through these troublesome days of teething (Four. Coming in at the same time. Kill me) I have been doing all I can to accomodate His Screaminess. You demand two binkies at bedtime? Done. You want that toy AND the one Bunny is holding? Fine. I am the supreme ruler on the toy allocation here anyway. You want yet more juice? Give me that cup. Oh, you don't want me to touch the empty cup? Let me get you a new fresh one... so I can wash a million sippy cups after you go to bed tonight.
He leads a charmed life.
And yet it has not been enough. It was crushing my will to greet every morning.
Then, during the second hour of a fuss of epic proportions, I thought of it: FREAKING MOTRIN!
Why have I been so slow to drug up the child?! Why has this been the very last thought? I should take a page out of my parent's handbook- BENADRYL FIRST. (back when you "could" give Benadryl to small children)
Not more than ten minutes after administering the elixir of goodwill and happiness? He's perfectly fine. Pushing the same button on a Little People car over and over again, but at least it is not screaming. I will take it.
Speaking of screaming? Someone let a very small fly into the house this evening. It warranted this reaction from Squirt:
Yes. Appropriate reaction. Completely.