plan b

I was going to write a different post tonight, about marriage and coparenting and professional caregiving. (It's going to be a PAGE TURNER y'all. Or maybe a page scroller. Since this is a blog and all.)

But Buster won't go to sleep. I've tried going in - it just fires him up more, and it makes Chicken think that the sole reason I have come into his bedroom after lights out is to answer his burning questions, like "Mommy tell me what you miss about me when I am sleeping," (Answer: go to sleep so I can find out) or "do all bushes have seed pods?" (Answer: WHAT. Are you fucking kidding me right now? We are in a state of HIGH ALERT. What's an even more alarming color than red for an alert? Like, hipster neon yellow? Because we are there. It's not even t-minus anymore. It's t-PLUS 2 and a half hours since bedtime and you have school tomorrow. We can google seed pods in the morning. Now shush.)

Poor Buster has a bruise on his cheek from falling onto a bowl yesterday (boy oh boy do I sound like I should be giving advice to other parents right now!) and I'm betting that's what's keeping him up.

I gave him Advil at 4. It's just now 6 hours so I can give him another hit of the sweet stuff.

Special A
Madison New Jersey Gold
Ride the White Grape Ferret
Madville
MBG... Mad Baby Goo

Ibu-dopin
Ibu-Bobby Pin
Ibu-Potato Skin
Ibu-Huckleberry Finn
Ibu-West Berlin
Ibu-Heterocercal Fin

Yes
I did Google
a bunch of drug street names
and then
made them
Advilly

Just call me
The Advillest
or
Sexual Dogheartz
which is my drug dealer name
according to this.

It's going to take some time for the Tambourine Man to start playing his song, but I don't have to tell you about what it feels like to try to do anything other than cry while your kid is crying. So that coparenting piece is going on the back burner.

5 things I would rather be doing than listening to my son cry right now

1. Shitting my pants at the Catalina Wine Mixer. I assume I would have to take a ferry back to the mainland for fresh pants. That's a long time to be in need of a moist towlette and some Hanes.

2. Explaining lockjaw to an ER doc on the night of my anniversary. (The steak was so chewy tho...)

3. Getting my credit card declined while out at a fancy dinner with a new couple that Ryan and I both think are awesome and erudite and out of our league, friend-wise.

4. Going to a general admission concert and standing next to a couple that dances REALLY big and keeps trying to squeeze into my personal space which fires up my inner warrior princess so I find my low center of gravity and make all kinds of promises to Norse gods in exchange for the strength to not knife my neighbor who is a miracle of science because her body is made up entirely of elbows, and she looooves every song this band has ever written.

5. Dropping my keys down the trash chute of a large apartment complex and then having to spend 2 hours hanging out with the stoned maintenance guy commenting on how much food people waste while digging through bags of food people have let rot in the fridges before dumping down the trash chute on top of my keys. Don't ask me how I know.

DID YOU KNOW
Keys
can
in fact
smell
like rotten honeydew melon
if that is
where you find them.



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