September 28, 2006

Not only was Riley nearly rash-free this morning, but he also ate an entire container of yogurt. To say this was a relief is a major understatement; when I saw that last spoonful go down his eager little gullet I did the Cabbage Patch right there in the kitchen.

If that mental picture doesn’t do you in, then let me tell you exactly how I spent our dinner hour last night: performing a complicated dance involving two pairs of men’s boxer-briefs, all in an attempt to amuse and distract the boy long enough so that his father could sneak a bite of food in his mouth.

See, Riley has been super fussy about eating lately – thanks, Mystery Viral SpotFest! – and he kept shoving away his dinner. We found that if he was distracted by something, he’d forget about his whole null-by-mouth stance for a minute and take a bite. So there I was, doing jumping jacks, comically dropping things on the floor, making rooster sounds, and generally being a freak, a super-freak, while JB hovered nearby, spoon at the ready. I had nearly exhausted everyone’s patience when I grabbed two pairs of JB’s underwear from a pile of laundry and began whipping them around and around like a deranged flag majorette, while singing, “Ya ta, ta ta ta TA ta, ta ta ta TA TA, eat-your-food!

This certainly got his attention, although I don’t really know if it was worth the two bites of mashed potato JB snuck in while I nearly gave myself a groin injury leaping around the living room and singing and whirling a couple pairs of underwear in the air.

Basically, I’m very happy that Riley’s eating again because not only will that hopefully improve his overall disposition, but it should lessen the chances that tonight I’ll find myself trying to incorporate a pair of Hanes into my own special rendition of The Worm. I mean, The Worm’s hard enough on its own, you know?

The things we do to entertain this child, I swear. You should see JB’s “motorbike” routine, where he sticks his tongue between his lips to make that farty “pbbbbblllttth” sound while he revs invisible bike handles and navigates big jumps where he, of course, gets massive air. Or the weird horse gallop – complete with hummed Lone Ranger theme music – I like to do up and down the hallway with Riley bouncing in my arms. Or the team “Mockingbird” routine JB and I do together, a la Dumb and Dumber.

It’s almost like we are ridiculously silly megadorks at heart who were just dying for an excuse to act retarded 24 hours a day. Almost.

September 27, 2006

Riley is napping right now, THANK GOD, because seriously, Spotty McRasherton is sapping my will to live. He’s not really sick, exactly, and he’s not itchy – he’s just…querulous. His patience level has dropped to negative eleventy billion, and it’s like living with the world’s most obnoxious drama queen. Bottle not quite within reach? WOE AND MISERY UNTO THE UNIVERSE. Toy dropped off edge of highchair tray? I BRING FIERY DEATH TO YOU ALL. Etc.

I’m glad we were able to get him into the doctor so quickly and rule out all of the exotic diseases I’m sure I would be grimly googling right now (Hmmm, was he somehow exposed to a “lone star” tick, otherwise known as the Amblyomma americanum? My god, I must call the CDC!). According to the doc, it’s just a viral rash, and not, at this point anyway, contagious.

It may not be an uncommon ailment but it sure is spectacularly freaky. His entire torso is covered in little red blotches and he looks like he should be in a special toddler colony on Molokai. I think I should dress him in a revealing, unbuttoned shirt, then lurch through the Bellevue Square Mall today just to watch people blanch and run away.

Touchh himmmmmmm,” I’ll hiss slushily, thrusting Riley, who certainly appears to be teeming with contagion, in their direction. “Become…like…usssssssssss.”

Or maybe I’ll just hang around here making rooster sounds all day in a desperate, unending quest to stave off his angry howls. Yeah. Either one, they both sound pretty awesome.

(The boy, pre-plague. Ah, he was once so spot-free, just like the No Hands carwash. Sigh.)

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