Things are still a bit interesting and eventful around here in the not-getting-much-sleep department. We have one very magnificent tooth, but there are clearly more still in there acting all rowdy and causing trouble (is one tooth not enough? Surely a single chomper is adequate to deal with all possible odontine requirements? Why must there be mooooooooore??) And to top off the joyfulness, Lumpy also decided to catch the first cold of his life. Ah, yes, my smugness returns to bite me in the arse once again. Barely a day has passed thus far when I haven't sat there all smuggity smug smug, smugly thinking how wonderful it's been that Lumpy hasn't caught a single cold, or been ill at all, concluding that I have, of course, spawned the mega baby who will never be ill, protected by my breast milk of righteousness.
Yeah, I deserved a right good arse biting.
It's not too bad a cold, so far, and it seems to be disappearing fairly quickly. He hasn't been completely blocked up at any point, just breathing in a way that allows you to hear the wet snot rattling around in his nostrils, making you desperately want to sniff for him (the snotsucker has been doing sterling work, but there's only so much one small plastic pipe can do). He had one morning last week where he came out in an angry looking rash and then proceeded to throw up throughout his Sing and Sign lesson (we hadn't learned the sign for 'projectile chunder' yet, unfortunately. I'm sure that'll be next week.) In my fragile, semi-hysterical state, that was enough to drive me to the doctor, who kindly cooed over my pathetic self and my loudly healthy baby, and gave me some gunk to put in his bath (the baby's, not the doctor's. Obviously), after repeatedly assuring me that he wasn't actually dying (the baby, not the doctor. Again).
I also decided to pick up some delightful food poisoning type thing at the beginning of the week, involving much squirting from orifices, which is great fun when you're attempting to juggle a snotty, toothy 20-pound Lump. Hurrah for diarrhea!
What with the snot and the teeth and the fact that Lumpy is the most distractable baby in the whole known world (ohhh, what's that? My god, it's the ceiling! Holy shit, check out that floor, that really is a mighty fine floo... Good god, air! Dust! Dust! I've spotted some dust! Daddy!! Catcatcatcat... etc.), mealtimes have become something of a challenge. Food that was considered perfectly acceptable yesterday is now rancid poisonous filth, oh my god, woman, what are you trying to do? Kill me? The spitting-everything-out game is also very popular, as is the whacking the full spoon with hand and catapulting contents across the room, and the screaming a lot whenever anything resembling a spoon comes within fifteen feet of the holy mouth. This means that of the 24 hours in the day, six are spent preparing food (at least seven options per mealtime, of which all will generally be rejected except for, maybe, fromage frais, if you're lucky), eleven are spent attempting to get Lumpy to eat, and eight are required for clearing up afterwards (picking slop out of hair, scrubbing banana off walls, hunting for remnants of chewed up slobbery bread in cleavage, etc.)
Lumpy and the boob have also had a major falling out, but things are still so bitter and acrimonious on that front that it's probably best we don't even discuss it. All will come out in court at a later date, no doubt.
But you know what? It doesn't matter. Because I know that the grizzly, shouty, cross Lumpy is merely a guise, and under that plain, somewhat stained babygrow there hides...
With the magical power of Drib-el, allowing him fight crime, torment cats, and revive even the most comatose of parents with a single smile.
Yes, fear not, sleepless, food-covered ones, for Superbaby is here to save the day, galloping in on his trusty steed: cow-bug-thing.
We love you, Superbaby!