Ow! I Just Stabbed Myself With My Ribs!

Yes, that is my son caressing the television remote with deep tenderness and undying devotion. This has been a week full of Baby Einstein, and I just may have created a monster. I used it to mesmerize him in order to attempt to sneak in sips of Pedialite. (Didn't work.) I used it to comfort him when he was feeling dreadful and didn't want to move, but was tired of books. I used it to keep him still during the times when he was feeling better but not-quite-all-the-way-there (I learned this the hard way after letting him jump in his jumpy thing, only to be completely soaked in throw-up moments later). And I used it today so that I could sit still after a night of throwing up myself. (Is it strange that I kept rubbing my cold feet and wondering if that is what they'd feel like if I was dead?)

So now my Sweet Precious will point longingly at the blank TV screen and pat his chest imploringly. If I don't move quickly, he'll begin searching for the remote, pushing random buttons when he finds it, sadly gazing at the dark machine when it doesn't respond. The times I do let him watch it, the moment it ends he calls out "aGEEE!" (translation: again!) I started out thinking this whole Baby Einstein thing wasn't so bad. I mean, for a kid's video, it's very mellow and soothing. Nothing like Mrs. Pattycake which, years after my one-and-only viewing, still haunts me (sorry Carrie). But at this point I think I'm going to throw myself off my back deck if I see a toy chicken waddle across my television screen one more time. Hopefully I'll feel good enough to leave the house tomorrow.

Happily, TCBITW is nearly recovered. No appetite yet, but hopefully that will return soon. (Please return soon! At least before your weight check!) Doesn't he look so spiffy in his rocket wambones? Those are my favorites.

Thanks to my brilliant friend, Eowyn (no, really, she's brilliant), I can now present to you the sweeping video you were so cruely deprived of last time:

A couple nights ago, after yet another crib-stripping exercise and fruitless Pedialite-offering ritual, I was kinda stressed out. I was tired, worried that Andrew was going to get dehydrated, smelled like regurgitated milk, and well, just ready to call it a day. Phil very graciously offered to handle all kitchen clean-up for me, and I took him up on it. We think so similarly about so many things, but apparently "clean" isn't one of them. This is what I found in my sink the next morning ... it was grosser than it looks. (I love you, Honey! It was still super-sweet!)