I’m having one of those weeks. It started when the littlest copped a fever halfway through her 2nd birthday party. I got to send parents away with goody bags and the casual warning that their beloved children may be infected with God knows what. And one of them with a three day old baby at home. It was like the STD talk you have one night too late. Or so I imagine.
So we put off the birthday zoo trip until the thermometer stopped reading “one-oh-holyballs!” That’s 105.6. No shit. With kid one, we would’ve been at the ER sitting between the carpenter with a finger in a bag of ice and the guy puking into his boss’s hat. But this is kid two, so we know the drill, drugs and liquids and crossed fingers. For three days.
When she finally rallied, we went to the zoo. The Engineer called in sick (don’t tell anyone) and we went to see some monkeys. The kid loves monkeys. Perfect birthday trip, I thought.
But she’s my kid, so instead of prancing about in paroxysms of joy, she clung to me and wept as though the monkeys had been sentenced to death by firing squad. She was like the Madness at a parade.
I don’t know what I’m going to do when these kids are 16. My children are already made of angst and suspicion – the teen years aren’t ready for them.
It’s been downhill from there. I’m now convinced the fever that started this week was no illness at all, but actually a rabid mutation into the realm of 2, when adorable babies become demanding, mercurial terrorists.
So that’s been my week. There was fun, too, of course. It crept in around the edges and occasionally overshadowed all the crazy. It often involved wine and the children being asleep.
That’s what prompted this comic on the four stages of parenting. This is the life of a parent, experienced on an hourly/daily/weekly/lifelong basis. I wake up every day with my shit together.
I go to sleep that way, too.
Everything in-between is chaos.