Some Weeks You’re the Windshield, Some Weeks You’re the Bug

Rowan has hand foot and mouth disease. And being Rowan, he doesn’t have it just a little, he is absolutely covered in blisters. Face, arms, hands, butt, legs, feet. He’s been out of daycare all week, and I am so freaking over it.

Over. It.

I can’t even get out of the house with him, because he’s probably contagious, and he looks like he has a case of small-chicken-pox-leprosy.

He’s also cutting his 7th tooth, which means the 8th is probably lurking just under the surface. Nothing says happy baby like a sharp piece of bone cutting through blistered gums.

I’ve barely been at work this week, which means I’m going to have to use FMLA and not get paid for part of it. For some reason my privileged ass thought that two educated bread winners living in a modest house would mean we’d actually bring in more money than we spend each month. My privileged ass was wrong wrong wrong.

As I’m typing this he’s decided to try to figure out how electricity works. I guess he’s feeling a little stir crazy, too.

The news is awful. People being killed based on who they are. Donald Trumpfuckface is a person on this planet. People are actually going to vote for him because he “tells it like it is.” And that means they think what “it is” is racist, misogynist, probably rapist, narcissist, and all sorts of other negative ists.

Squirt is sick again. He has another UTI and is stumbling more. He weighs 8.5 pounds now — I knew he felt light. He’s always been around 11 pounds. He doesn’t have a lot of time left, but it’s hard to enjoy him when he’s peeing on things, and generally fairly stinky because he can’t clean himself very well. He doesn’t appear to be in any pain, so we’re in that limbo where we know the end is near, but no idea how near. In May I didn’t think there was any way he’d still be here in July. I’ve had him for 14 of his 18 years. He’s not supposed to die ever. So far he’s holding up his end of the agreement.

Finding some good. Rowan has learned how to blow kisses. I’m seeing occasional glimpses of Lorelei becoming a big kid, rather than a screaming banshee. Zach will be home with beer in an hour (I should tell him that, I guess). I’ve discovered the awesomeness of Google Radio (specifically the Dar Williams channel). It’s Friday, and we have no plans this weekend. I’ve suddenly put all these puzzle pieces together in therapy, because my brain can do a lot more work when it’s had sleep.

I was going to whine about the writer’s block I seem to have acquired, but that would mean referring to myself as a writer, which I can’t quite bring myself to do. But I’m out of ideas. I keep starting documents, writing a paragraph or two, deciding it’s crap, and closing the browser tab.

Who knew that I would be able to write prolifically only when chronically majorly sleep deprived and slightly depressed. This week has sucked, but overall I’m feeling better than I have since Rowan was born, because sleep.

Maybe I need to take some time to read, rather than write. Anyone have any great book suggestions?