Hunger Strike

We dodged the ACL bullet this weekend and became ever more thankful that we don’t live anywhere near the river. We went to a lovely wedding at the One World Theater Sunday night and as much as I wanted to hit the boutiques south of the river for something fabulous to wear, I made do with what my ‘hood had to offer which was nada. I threw fits and tired ol’ dresses on the floor as I fought with clothes that no longer fit. I settled on a neglected top and skirt and pretended not to notice myself. We had great fun and the wedding couple had, by far, the most incredible cake IN THE WORLD. The husband, being a drummer, had a cake that was an entire, made to scale, drum kit. I’m talking every drum but the bass was cake. It had to be roped off so people wouldn’t mistakenly play a solo. It was amazing. Papa and I acted like teens on a date, made new friends, and smooched in the rain.

Baby went on a hunger strike this weekend and the whole damn thing began with a fever of 102.7 Friday night. I never panicked and in fact as baby faded in and out of the evening, we went about our business of making dinner and sipping vino and every so often I’d go poke him in the butt with the thermometer. Saturday the fever was gone and so was his appetite. Thankfully, he acted pretty normal and drank plenty of fluids and after the wedding Sunday night, had his first snack at midnight. The whole time though he was shrinking into a wafer thin version of himself. His ribs showed and I could almost carry him in my pocket like a lucky rabbit’s foot. Pitiful.

Days prior to Willem’s first birthday, we installed his front facing car seats in our cars. I was excited to have him right there behind me. His needs wouldn’t be such a mystery anymore and I could console him easier when the demon part of his personality took over. What I didn’t realize was he would now have direct contact with me at the wheel and could therefore torment me with better efficiency. His screaming voice projects at the windshield, bounces off and smacks me in the face. It’s awesome.

Sunday night, on the way to the in-law-sitters, I turned to see a giant mosquito hungrily sucking away at W’s cheek. It was huge and practically needed its own carseat. I swatted at it (i.e. his face) and W just looked at me like I had lost my mind. Immediately the damn thing landed on his forehead and started hammering away and again with the swat. At this point W was taking it personally and I was starting to get really frustrated and cramped in the belted passenger seat (Papa was driving). It landed on his left foot and whack, whack. It landed on his right foot and whack, whack, whack. I finally killed it but by this time crocodile tears were streaming down his cheeks as he looked at me confused and hurt. I felt horrible about it but what was I to do? The next morning he woke up with half grown skeeter bites on his face, a visual reminder of the first time I smacked my kid.