That is my new way of expressing frustration, and I could not recommend it more. When all other words fail you, nothing feels quite like dropping “motherfucking” twice.
So, you know: UNCLE. Fiona is sick with her first real cold, and it’s dreadful. We took her to the ER on Friday night because her breathing was choppy and labored, and by the time we rolled in she was all coo’s and giggles, so much so that we felt like total Munchhausen by proxy parents even checking her in. The attending doctor kept saying, “Well, she looks fine, but if she has another “episode” bring her in!” Episode? Could there be a more condescending way of saying something?
If only we knew on Friday how much worse it was going to get, I would have saved my ER visit. It turns out that we are woefully unprepared for a sick baby. We are bumbling fools, everything we say has a hint of panic and a question mark on the end.
“Maybe . . . water?”
“That noise does not sound right. Right?”
“You hold her, and I will shove this . . . up her nose?”
It’s bad, internet. I mean, I don’t want to over-exaggerate, but I think I’ve got a raging case of PTSD from the crying. I can hear a crying baby twenty miles away now, and it fills me with a sick dread. Last night we passed out in a snotty heap in front of the television and I woke up saying, “She’s started again!” and it was a stupid movie with a baby crying.
The thing is, we are still swaddling, and concurrent with the Ebola virus is her sudden readiness to not be swaddled. Which is fine, really, except she doesn’t sleep unless she is swaddled. So it goes: three hours of crying, lay her down, three hours of crying, lay her down, one hour of crying (by all of us) put her in the swing and curl up at the base sucking our thumbs. And let’s be real here, “crying” is a piss poor way to describe what a sick baby does. It’s more of a screech / arch / kick / gag / fart / vomit / screech / claw / inhale / silence for five seconds where you think it might be over but really they are just gathering apocalyptic strength / repeat.
Three days in to this and B and I (who never fight) are blaming each other for everything that has happened since Nam. I was rocking her and he comes charging in and says, “SHE DOESN’T LIKE THE FUCKING SWADDLE!” Like I invented the swaddle, then sewed the swaddle, then swaddled her in the swaddle, and then told everyone she could never get out of the swaddle. Motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane!
Last night we finally just put her in the car seat and stormed outside slamming doors and drove around until she was asleep. In retrospect it’s funny that we both went, like it was a normal family affair. We rode in complete silence for thirty minutes, seething at each other for indiscretions such as a stomach growl that woke her up once she was finally asleep.
Sidebar: when my nephew was little and he got mad he would make horns at you, and it became a family thing. I just searched for pictures and found at least one of everyone in the family doing it, and I would upload them all if I could but my computer is LAME, so here is one as an example:
Anyway, this is how B and I say “be quiet” when Fiona is sleeping, and last night B did it to the dogs. Just horned the shit right out of them when they had the audacity to walk up the stairs. Then I started laughing, and he horned me, so I had to do the silent laugh. What I am saying is, things have become crazy over here.
I want my sweet baby back! The smiler, the girl who slept all night and cuddled and didn’t leak fluids from several orifices at once. You know, the one I was going to talk about in a sweet little entry before that got derailed and bastardized into this entry. Motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane!