Jun
10
Dylan doesn’t eat dog hair any more when he’s mad but he does blow raspberries. Furious farty little raspberries, and it is both hilarious and maddening.
“Dylan! Get down from there, please.”
“PBBBLT!”
I keep trying to get it on video because it’s really the sort of thing that needs to be seen and heard to be fully appreciated but by the time I locate the camera he’s usually dialed back down from his White Hot Mouthfart Rage and has moved on to the second stage, which involves picking up toys and throwing them back to the floor while staring directly at me in order to fully communicate how motherfucking pissed off he is that I intervened on behalf of his personal safety, HOW DARE I.
He is so very two lately, you know? Talking up a storm and basically an actual no-shit functioning kid in many ways, but with the emotional consistency of a SuperBall. The strangest things set him off, like if he doesn’t get to open the door first when I come home from work. God forbid Riley’s the one to turn the handle because it’s instant Dylan Armageddon, a meltdown of epic proportions that’s like being greeted by a rabid pitbull that’s also on fire and shooting bees out its ass and also its arm is a shark and it’s made out of poison.
We tell him to go to his room for a time out when he gets too firmly mired in jackass mode and I sort of can’t believe he actually complies but he does, shrieking all the way down the hall like a firebell before slamming the door halfway off its hinges. He stomps around and throws things and and sulks and blows farts for a while and howls “NO!” when I ask him if he’s ready to come out and then eventually he goes all Memento and comes strolling out like hey, what’s up, why’s everyone so tense?
Sometimes when he’s feeling affectionate he calls me MeeMee. “Hi MeeMee,” he’ll say, hugging my legs. Then he grins and bends over. “Look at my butt!”
Oh, two.
Jun
9
Riley woke up on Monday morning crying piteously and when I went to touch his forehead I had to stop myself from collapsing to the ground howling “WHY, GOD, WHY?” because seriously, we just got over a round of feverish viral gunk two weeks ago, and the prospect of dropping right back into it was almost too much to bear.
The uncaring gods of bad timing don’t give a flying shit about anyone’s personal preferences, of course, so we wearily set up shop—installing Riley on the couch, creating an assembly line from our collection of half-full bottles of Motrin and Tylenol, putting up a cot in our bedroom for wee-hour ministrations, and hauling out the Barf Receptacle of Doom (aka the blue stockpot I guess I’ll probably never be cooking in again)—before getting down to the festive business of deciding who would stay home from work. The exact same routine we went through two weeks ago, down to the endless background blat of Curious George.
It turns out he has strep, for which his pediatrician prescribed the ubiquitous amoxicillin regimen. He woke up this morning fever-free and pretty much back to normal, so I’m feeling very ambivalent on whether or not to start the antibiotics. The amoxicillin won’t get rid of the strep, it’s used mainly to reduce time of contagion and prevent rare complications. Meanwhile, in my experience it totally wrecks their little gastrointestinal systems, starting about 24 hours into that endless prescription. I hate giving my kid something twice a day for TEN DAYS that’s going to give them the screaming fire shits, you know?
I’d love to hear your thoughts on antibiotics. Do you use them every time they’re prescribed? If you do use them, do you find that probiotics or something similar help with the collateral damage?
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