The teeth. The gleaming ivory fangs that will one day completely adorn my toddler's gaping maw, truly rendering her the most horrific beast in the World Monster Almanac, have still not made their appearance. I can see the canines hovering just below the surface and judge by her behavior (sticking her fingers far back in her mouth, rubbing and then crying) that her second-year molars are coming in six months early.
I. CAN'T. TAKE. MUCH. MORE. OF. THIS.
Last night, at 11:30 PM, Arabis wakens with a start and begins to scream. And scream. Did I mention the screaming? Raving shrieks of unholy infant terror that could not be calmed. She wants Papa. Okay, that's good. Then, the breathing becomes more rapid, the face reddens, the mouth opens, sound bursting forth unremitting. Not Papa? How about Mama? Yes. That's the ticket. We want the mama...or DO WE?
Back and forth for half an hour. Is it the diaper? Change the diaper. Contrary to the sounds being emitted from my baby's mouth, this did not involve in any way, shape or form hot pokers.
Okay. Diaper is changed. Is she hungry? Get the bottle. Obviously the bottle is filled with acid of vitriol, or so her howls would have us believe.
Is is the teeth? It must be the teeth. Where's the Baby Orajel? Okay, can we get it in her mouth? How is she managing to yell without opening her mouth? Do we have pliers around here anywhere? Get the Baby Tylenol in at the same time.
Phew. Baby Orajel rubbed on the gums. Mama got a little in her mouth too, that's why we're both drooling. The screams have abated and we are left with a red-faced, watery eyed and runny nosed being who vaguely resembles our daughter.
Papa puts a saved version of Bear in the Big Blue House on the telly, then calmly announces that he is going to bed. Good night.
The sound you now hear is me, breathing heavily through my teeth like Darth Vader, plotting Papa's demise.
She was up until 2:00 AM. I don't know how we finally managed to fall asleep. I remember there was much singing in Armenian (one of the few things that almost always works to send her to sleep). But I am so sick I sound like a cross between Carol Channing and Bea Arthur. And whenever I say a word with a deep throaty guttural sound I end up hacking like a three-pack-a-day smoker. And where was Mojo? If we are very quiet we can hear the gentle snores wafting down from the loft. He is upstairs. ASLEEP.
This morning? She goes back and forth. The cursed fangs are right there, so close to the surface I can *see* them, but they stubbornly refuse to emerge. Does the damned thing want a marching band, because that can be arranged. I have not dressed. Nor brushed my teeth nor put in my contacts. My hair is still in its braid from last night, much of it now come loose around my face like a Halloween fright wig. Mojo actually had the testicular fortitude to *LAUGH* at me this morning. There is a special circle of hell for him. Unfortunately he is such a sweetheart most of the time, he really doesn't deserve it. Plus he's working this extra contract writing job so we'll have a nice holiday when his son comes out in December, so I can't be hard on him at all.
Oh, and my fever's back. Can you tell? Am I delirious? I *hate* being sick. I am a horrible patient. I revert to being a petulant eight year old.
They say Shiva is the goddess of destruction and renewal. The destruction is self-evident. The renewal I will gladly accept in the form of her learning that the toys go *in* the box when we are done playing not *out* faster than mama can shovel them in.