Are those his new vitamin drops?
Holy crap, they smell like ass!  I hope they taste better.
Try it.
Screw you, YOU try it.
No way.
We might as well give it to the kid.

.....

Look at that gag reflex.
He hates it.
I guess it must taste like ass, too.
Yeah.  Serious ass.
You can give it to him tomorrow morning.
No way.

The only I’ve found to keep one cranky baby amused during long car rides is to sing.  Must have a good melody, must be upbeat, extra points for repetitive phrasing.  Problem is, I don’t have a huge mental repertoire of kid songs. Novice much? So, in addition to select favorites from Annie and South Pacific, I’ve had to fall back on the few classics I know, like Old MacDonald and The Wheels on the Bus.

Which, after the 15 round, can make any otherwise reasonable person want to jam hot pokers into their brain cavities.

There are now new passengers on the bus.

The homeless on the bus say Spare some change? Spare some change? Spare some change?

The fundies on the bus say Are you saved? Are you saved? Are you saved?

What other verses can you think of to the Wheels on the Bus?  My sanity is counting on you.

I’ve had one trick or treater tonight. One.  And now I’m locked in a quiet house with an enormous bowl of mini Twix. And THAT my friends is the definition of terrifying.

How could I NOT post this?

It’s impossible.

You know, when I found out I would be raising a boy, I knew there would be issues related to his, uh, equipment.  I guess I didn’t realize that it would be so soon.

Behold, he has discovered his penis!  The first time he found it he had it in such a vice grip that I winced, waiting for the wailing to begin. Instead he looked up at me like, I own this?  Why didn’t someone tell me? 

Don’t worry, said Mr. K, this is the first day of the rest of his life.

And I don’t think he has let go of it since.

This week has been such a frantic whirl of work craziness that I haven’t had the chance to talk about The Weekend.  Note the capitalization, indicating great importance.  Also because The Weekend In Which We Leave The Baby for 36 Hours Straight and We’re Doomed, Dooooooomed!  is way too long.

That’s right.  First weekend away from the Karmite. Ho.Ly. Crap.

A friend is getting married this weekend. So Mr. K and I will be leaving Emerson in the loving, if not overenthusiastic care of my parents.  We’re driving to NJ tomorrow afternoon and then starting the 6+ hour drive to Virginia Beach at the crack of dawn so we have a fighting chance of actually making it to the wedding on time.  We’ll be repeating the drive back first thing Sunday morning.

Originally, I was completely cocky about this. I was thinking, Look at how balanced I am!  I can put my child in the hands of the people who raised me and be fine! I’m fine!  And balanced!  Some people don’t leave their kids for YEARS!  This will be GOOD for Emerson. Good for us! A weekend alone…wheeeee!

Have I mentioned what an maroon I am?

As the date has crept closer, the hand-wringing has set in.  How can I leave him?  What if he misses me?  My parents don’t know the schedule, oh sweet jesus, what about the schedule??  Will they be able to perform the super-secret one hip standing bobble that stops any crying?  How can I go somewhere to drink and dance and repeatedly hitch up my girdle when something could go wrong?

Ugh, my stomach just put itself in knots again.

Compounding this worry are two things.  The first involves poop (ha, doesn’t it always?) as in, he’s not doing it.  The Karmite has gone from a predictable set of 3-4 explosions per day to one catastrophic nuclear disaster every 3-4 days. He’s perfectly fine otherwise, so we haven’t worried TOO much about it. Yet. But if it IS a problem and we DO need to worry about it, I don’t want it to be while we’re many hours away.

The second thing is drama of my own making.  Last night, I got Emerson out of his swing where he was taking an evening snooze.  Usually, he stirs when I pick him up.  This time, nothing. I rub his back, bobble him a little. Still nothing. Faint alarm bells go off in my head.  I carry him to the family room, put him down, strip him, start rubbing his legs.  I get a bit of eye fluttering but otherwise, absolutely no response.  He’s just heavy and floppy and now those alarm bells are deafening.  I’m talking to him, jiggling, rubbing him, anything to get him to wake up.  And then I lose it.  Completely and utterly lose my shit like I’ve never lost it before.  I’m sobbing and rubbing and yelling “Emerson? Emerson!  What’s wrong, baby?” and running around wondering what the hell I should do.  Finally I run into the kitchen, put him in the sink and hose him down with cold water.

Where he promptly wakes up, stretches and gives me a look like, wha…? why…? what the fuck is wrong with you?  He was fine.  Absolutely, wonderfully fine. Just really, really asleep.  And me?  I was a hysterical mess, on my knees on the kitchen floor, soaked, clutching a wet, naked, squirming baby to my chest and crying my eyes out.  And making promises to variety deities that I will take an infant CPR course as soon as possible. Because, GOD.

I just started crying again, going over that scenario in my mind.  I’ve never been so scared or felt so helpless. If something happened to him...?  I just don’t want to go there.

Yeah, I’m SO ready to leave the baby for the weekend.

My husband’s idea of doing the laundry.

God, I hope that’s clean underwear.