I turned my back for a minute and the boy's face was sucking on the ground.
Hoovering.
After I detached him from the floor, I spied a mashed craisin that he had been trying to maneuver into his mouth. His eagle eyes, wiggly little crawl, and fierce independence have morphed him into a lean, mean hoovering machine. That smidge of sweet potato tucked into the kitchen corner? He's on it.
You must know that pre-motherhood, I was a bit...how shall I frame it?...dirty. Not Christina Aguilea diiirty. Messy. Slobby. Post-motherhood? Let's just say I have not yet bought into the 1950s war on germs, but I do vacuum most every day.
Spence is just a hoovering pack rat. He squirrels away food in his crevices and hides them for future hoovering expeditions. Today I watched him lean over his booster seat and stick a few peas under his seat for a mid-afternoon snack.
Crafty little hoover.
Showing posts with label Spence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Spence. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Almost.
Just when we thought we could name the boy "healed," the phone rang.
Or rather, Dave instant messaged me. "Boy has a rash. I'll meet you at Allison's." I was at work. The third day out of the last eight that I had actually made it into work. I dutifully shut down my computer and hurried out of the building.
By the time I got there, Dave was rocking the boy and he informed me we had a doctor's appointment in 15 minutes. Spence seemed slightly subdued. (Come on, you love that every word in that sentence started with an 's.')
Team Snyder arrived at the Children's Clinic without actually laying an eye on the rash. Dave checked in and I tried to sneak a peak at the rash. I couldn't really see anything. My anxiety started to bubble up as I feared that we had morphed into over-anxious parents. Was there even a rash?
By the time we entered into the exam room, I was convinced it was fine and more focused on not looking like an idiot in front of our beloved Dr. Goel. I undressed Spence. I flitted between wanting to see bright red splotches to justify our third visit to the doctor and hoping his skin was pasty as ever. Small pink spots were visible...almost like an impressionist's rosebud smudges. Perhaps not enough to warrant a trek to the clinic.
Dr. Goel smiled, wrote a note that allowed us to return to daycare and we were on our way. Spence snoozed all the way home.
Or rather, Dave instant messaged me. "Boy has a rash. I'll meet you at Allison's." I was at work. The third day out of the last eight that I had actually made it into work. I dutifully shut down my computer and hurried out of the building.
By the time I got there, Dave was rocking the boy and he informed me we had a doctor's appointment in 15 minutes. Spence seemed slightly subdued. (Come on, you love that every word in that sentence started with an 's.')
Team Snyder arrived at the Children's Clinic without actually laying an eye on the rash. Dave checked in and I tried to sneak a peak at the rash. I couldn't really see anything. My anxiety started to bubble up as I feared that we had morphed into over-anxious parents. Was there even a rash?
By the time we entered into the exam room, I was convinced it was fine and more focused on not looking like an idiot in front of our beloved Dr. Goel. I undressed Spence. I flitted between wanting to see bright red splotches to justify our third visit to the doctor and hoping his skin was pasty as ever. Small pink spots were visible...almost like an impressionist's rosebud smudges. Perhaps not enough to warrant a trek to the clinic.
Dr. Goel smiled, wrote a note that allowed us to return to daycare and we were on our way. Spence snoozed all the way home.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Flu Watch: Day 6
Spence is still sick.
(I would like to say that accounts for my 18 voicemail messages piling up on my cell phone, but we all know that is not really the case...)
Dave and I wake up every morning full of hope that Spence is on the mend. We chatter back and forth that we think that he's "over the hump" or "turning the corner." We even flirt with the idea that he'll eat some solid food in the afternoon. Which letter of the BRAT diet will we start with? Toast? Bananas? Spence will nurse a little. Then comes the vomit baptism. And we're back to Pedialyte, one minute nursing sessions and repeated calls to the advice nurse, who assures us these stomach bugs can last 7 to 10 days. Our optimism fades completely. We are deflated. It feels like we are failing him.
(I would like to say that accounts for my 18 voicemail messages piling up on my cell phone, but we all know that is not really the case...)
Dave and I wake up every morning full of hope that Spence is on the mend. We chatter back and forth that we think that he's "over the hump" or "turning the corner." We even flirt with the idea that he'll eat some solid food in the afternoon. Which letter of the BRAT diet will we start with? Toast? Bananas? Spence will nurse a little. Then comes the vomit baptism. And we're back to Pedialyte, one minute nursing sessions and repeated calls to the advice nurse, who assures us these stomach bugs can last 7 to 10 days. Our optimism fades completely. We are deflated. It feels like we are failing him.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Vomity
Do you count vomit by the actual times you heave?
Or do you count it by the number of times vomit spills onto your clothes?
If you count per heave, then Spence vomited 8 times before 10 a.m.
If you are a vomity clothes person, then I changed three times (complete with underwear) before 10 a.m.
More...much more followed all throughout the day.
Spence was really, really sick today. Dark circles colored under his eyes. The copious vomit. (It is now 8:09 p.m. and I did change four times today.) But, he started to show his personality in times of trial. And let's just say he takes after me.
He denies that he is sick. He vomits, but no whining, no listlessness. Constant desires to get up and move. Lots of happy screams. Giggles and demands for milk, followed by more vomit. I resorted to feeding the boy Pedialyte by the spoon. He bubbled up with anger as if to say, "Damn woman, go get me some sweet potato fries!"
It's hard finding the humor in a terrible, no good, very bad day.
Or do you count it by the number of times vomit spills onto your clothes?
If you count per heave, then Spence vomited 8 times before 10 a.m.
If you are a vomity clothes person, then I changed three times (complete with underwear) before 10 a.m.
More...much more followed all throughout the day.
Spence was really, really sick today. Dark circles colored under his eyes. The copious vomit. (It is now 8:09 p.m. and I did change four times today.) But, he started to show his personality in times of trial. And let's just say he takes after me.
He denies that he is sick. He vomits, but no whining, no listlessness. Constant desires to get up and move. Lots of happy screams. Giggles and demands for milk, followed by more vomit. I resorted to feeding the boy Pedialyte by the spoon. He bubbled up with anger as if to say, "Damn woman, go get me some sweet potato fries!"
It's hard finding the humor in a terrible, no good, very bad day.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Hairs Cut!
"Are you ready for a bald baby?" I hazily remember my midwife John asking in the final stages of pushing. "Just get the kid out," was all I could muster. A bald baby was not the fruit of my labor.Fast forward 9+ months.
He's gives Shaggy from Scooby Doo a run for the Scooby snacks. So we gathered Spence up on this balmy 32 degree day and took him to get his hair cut. He was a squirmy Spence, so we left a little cockeyed, but de-shagged.
Luckily, a visit to Grandma resulted in his second haircut of the day which straightened up the tilty cut. Somehow, it is still a big shaggy...
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Stomach Flu Spence
Scratch that last entry.
It wasn't the rocks. It is the stomach flu.
He's still giggly and now has vomited a few more times on mama and once on dad.
At least every member of Team Snyder has been vomited on so far in 2008.
It wasn't the rocks. It is the stomach flu.
He's still giggly and now has vomited a few more times on mama and once on dad.
At least every member of Team Snyder has been vomited on so far in 2008.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Spewing Spencer
There was a Spencer who swallowed round rocks,
I don't know why he swallowed those rocks.
I guess he'll...
projectile vomit all over his mama.
I should have known that I could not escape 2007 without being vomited on.
In a bizarre and irrational twist, I blame Anastasia. She nudged me to give the boy some raisins. Soft candy rocks. He gobbled them up like his dad does expensive dark chocolate truffles. Suddenly, visions of raisins danced in his head. Whereas before he would have cruised by the random piece of trash on the floor, he now does the raisin roulette with all found objects. This time he lost.
But, the two round rocks that he apparently categorized as "raisin" had not yet been discovered in the rivers of vomit that drenched me, the bed and the floor. (The boy was mostly unscathed.) I just watched in complete terror as my child had morphed in to a vomiting Garbage Pail Kid. I shrieked for Dave.
He came running.
We were not at home, but in a odd hexagon-shaped cabin apparently owned by fundamentalist Christians. Most of the other rooms in this home were normal. The room that our friends stuck us in was distinctly not. There was a large stained glass window of a cross and crown commemorating a guy who died in World War I. This was flanked by a tacky 'painting' of Jesus surrounded by lambs on one side of the window and three different versions of the Bible on the other. Ha, ha. Stick the religiously confused interfaith family in the Christian room for New Years. Watch the hijinx ensue.
So when Dave found us, the rosy light from the Christian soldier gravestone window was illuminating the vomit. I was near tears as Dave assessed the situation. Spencer was now giggling and babbling to his "Dada." Just like his Mama, the post-vomit feeling is usually a serene relief. Dave dragged us into the bathroom.
He found a towel and started to wipe the chunks of vomit off me. I howled at him and told him to stay focused on the (clean) boy. Spence cooed. I grabbed the thermometer and the Vaseline and got a reading. No fever. Spence commenced his favorite pastime...pulling himself up. More snickers from the boy.
He's fine. It has taken me three days to finally catch my breath.
I don't know why he swallowed those rocks.
I guess he'll...
projectile vomit all over his mama.
I should have known that I could not escape 2007 without being vomited on.
In a bizarre and irrational twist, I blame Anastasia. She nudged me to give the boy some raisins. Soft candy rocks. He gobbled them up like his dad does expensive dark chocolate truffles. Suddenly, visions of raisins danced in his head. Whereas before he would have cruised by the random piece of trash on the floor, he now does the raisin roulette with all found objects. This time he lost.
But, the two round rocks that he apparently categorized as "raisin" had not yet been discovered in the rivers of vomit that drenched me, the bed and the floor. (The boy was mostly unscathed.) I just watched in complete terror as my child had morphed in to a vomiting Garbage Pail Kid. I shrieked for Dave.
He came running.
We were not at home, but in a odd hexagon-shaped cabin apparently owned by fundamentalist Christians. Most of the other rooms in this home were normal. The room that our friends stuck us in was distinctly not. There was a large stained glass window of a cross and crown commemorating a guy who died in World War I. This was flanked by a tacky 'painting' of Jesus surrounded by lambs on one side of the window and three different versions of the Bible on the other. Ha, ha. Stick the religiously confused interfaith family in the Christian room for New Years. Watch the hijinx ensue.
So when Dave found us, the rosy light from the Christian soldier gravestone window was illuminating the vomit. I was near tears as Dave assessed the situation. Spencer was now giggling and babbling to his "Dada." Just like his Mama, the post-vomit feeling is usually a serene relief. Dave dragged us into the bathroom.
He found a towel and started to wipe the chunks of vomit off me. I howled at him and told him to stay focused on the (clean) boy. Spence cooed. I grabbed the thermometer and the Vaseline and got a reading. No fever. Spence commenced his favorite pastime...pulling himself up. More snickers from the boy.
He's fine. It has taken me three days to finally catch my breath.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Oral Obsession
"I wouldn't say he's far behind. But yeah, he's behind."
With those words, my heart broke into a million tiny pieces. Just like the supposedly unbreakable Corelle bowl that Spence broke the night before when he ceremoniously rejected my attempt at prunes. (Yes, prunes. The love was a one time event.)
I just stared at the doctor. Her resident looked on, nodding knowingly. She looked to be about 24.
"If he doesn't start opening up his mouth and eating solids, he'll need to go see a specialist. He most likely has oral aversion."
Oral aversion? From the boy that nurses 24/7? What about kids developing in their own time? And the fact that he's only 8 months? Doesn't breast milk provide all the nutrition he needs until age 1? You rarely meet a healthy kid, which he is, who doesn't ever eat. Breastfeeding 18 year olds? I don't think so.
But, I nodded. Terrified.
"And how does he do with the Gerber Puffs? Yo Baby? ... What? You haven't given him Gerber Puffs?"
Call the Bad Mom Police. I have denied the boy Gerber Puffs. If you opt out of capitalism, you need to go see a specialist.
"Yes, he has another four weeks to see if he develops before we'll refer him. And how's he sleeping?"
I should have just walked out. It was a trick question. I had been counseled by friends to just lie in these situations, but like cows to the slaughter... I told her.
There was a whirlwind of words, clicking of cry-it-out, and doctor-giggles masked as empathy and then Spence and I were walking out of the doctor's office. A full 90 minutes after we walked in.
It took me a good 11 hours to realize that the doctor was full of shit. Before then, there were lots of self-doubt, fear and sweet potato Gerber Puffs. And now?
He's starting to feed himself. Sucker.
With those words, my heart broke into a million tiny pieces. Just like the supposedly unbreakable Corelle bowl that Spence broke the night before when he ceremoniously rejected my attempt at prunes. (Yes, prunes. The love was a one time event.)
I just stared at the doctor. Her resident looked on, nodding knowingly. She looked to be about 24.
"If he doesn't start opening up his mouth and eating solids, he'll need to go see a specialist. He most likely has oral aversion."
Oral aversion? From the boy that nurses 24/7? What about kids developing in their own time? And the fact that he's only 8 months? Doesn't breast milk provide all the nutrition he needs until age 1? You rarely meet a healthy kid, which he is, who doesn't ever eat. Breastfeeding 18 year olds? I don't think so.
But, I nodded. Terrified.
"And how does he do with the Gerber Puffs? Yo Baby? ... What? You haven't given him Gerber Puffs?"
Call the Bad Mom Police. I have denied the boy Gerber Puffs. If you opt out of capitalism, you need to go see a specialist.
"Yes, he has another four weeks to see if he develops before we'll refer him. And how's he sleeping?"
I should have just walked out. It was a trick question. I had been counseled by friends to just lie in these situations, but like cows to the slaughter... I told her.
There was a whirlwind of words, clicking of cry-it-out, and doctor-giggles masked as empathy and then Spence and I were walking out of the doctor's office. A full 90 minutes after we walked in.
It took me a good 11 hours to realize that the doctor was full of shit. Before then, there were lots of self-doubt, fear and sweet potato Gerber Puffs. And now?
He's starting to feed himself. Sucker.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Prunes! Prunes! Prunes!
We've tried avocados, bananas, sweet potatoes, broccoli, butternut squash, peaches, rice cereal, nectarines, green beans, pears, apples, peas, carrots, pluots, mum mums, and they were met with only scowls until...PRUNES!It is the only food that he will routinely open up his mouth to eat.
Delight is a word that cannot possibly capture my excitement. Bliss? Rapture? Tickled pink?
And it is wrapped in with memories of a friend's mom, Pam. With every mouth full and expression of mirth, I think of Pam and how she lived her life with sheer joy. My mind drifts to memories of Pam dressed up as the Easter Bunny and hopping across the family room. (We were in college.) And her sun-like smile on her son's wedding day.
Why do prunes lead to warm fuzzies of Pam? No, she did not have issues with constipation. She was, however, the prune grand dame of Yuba City. The queen of the famed Prune Festival, now the Dried Plum Festival.
Pam left us way too soon. I wish that there were new memories to add to the old. But as Spence chows down on the prunes, I think of Pam and grin.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Happy Halloween!
Spence, the magic dragon lived near the lakes
And frolicked in the autumn leaves in a land called Nordeast,
Little Byron Kitty loved that rascal Spence,
And brought him bugs and electric cords and other fancy stuff, oh...
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Fall Back!
Walks are always tough with the boy. He is very particular. We have tried two different strollers, with very little success. We used a moby wrap when he was a little guy, and now alternate between the pad thai (our name for the mei tai) and the patapum.
We always try the stroller first, tucking the wrap du jour in the basket for meltdown. Lately with his weight increasing (a solid 18 pounds now), we do all we can to entertain him before breaking out the carrier. We got the obligatory toy bar...painted plastic from China that plays a mildly annoying ribbety song. Buys us about 3 minutes. I try to run ahead, whipping my head around to surprise him. Another 4 minutes. Growling, roaring like a tiger. A whopping 5 minutes. But yesterday, we discovered the money move. Me, running along side, schunching the fall leaves, high stepping to force the leaves off the ground like confetti. We entered into no man's land...double digits.
The boy loves fall. He samples the yellowing leaves and wrinkles his nose at the taste. Attempts to wriggle out of my arms to pull the colored leaves off of the tree. He cranes his neck to watch the birds migrating high up in the sky. Squirms at the sensation of the innards of a pumpkin.
On to winter...
Monday, October 29, 2007
Mobile
The tentative looks on the travelers' faces betrayed them. These strangers were not nearly as excited for the first "all Mama" weekend as I was. I know it was their version of baby roulette....all silently praying that we wouldn't land near them. We did land next to an elderly couple who had recently met in person, after meeting virtually for months. Spence and I huddled up in our window seat in the very last row...playing with a teething block, reading books and drinking ice cold water. He kick, kick, kicked the seat in front of him when I finally offered him his second favorite liquid an hour into the flight. The guy in front deserved it...he knew that we were two and still leaned his seat back. Here's to traveling before the boy is mobile...
And then, shortly after touchdown, the boy became mobile. I watched as he assumed the crawling position and instead of just rocking on all fours, he moved forward. Progress. Right there on Aunt Emily's floor. A mixture of horror and delight all meshed together filled my heart. The closest Dave and I had come to babyproofing the house was to say the word aloud. No action. But, mobility waits for no cabinet latch. Our boy is crawling.
And biting. Those two pearly whites, still hidden from view, have been practicing on my nipples. Love at first bite? Spence seems to think so. He drink, drink, drinks and then chomp. A blinding grin follows. I try not to shriek and check for blood drips. I keep trying to burn into my memory Dr. Sears' mandate...push the babe into the breast after a bite, not away. It all flitters out of my head as the next bite floods my pain sensors. Seven bites and counting.
And then, shortly after touchdown, the boy became mobile. I watched as he assumed the crawling position and instead of just rocking on all fours, he moved forward. Progress. Right there on Aunt Emily's floor. A mixture of horror and delight all meshed together filled my heart. The closest Dave and I had come to babyproofing the house was to say the word aloud. No action. But, mobility waits for no cabinet latch. Our boy is crawling.
And biting. Those two pearly whites, still hidden from view, have been practicing on my nipples. Love at first bite? Spence seems to think so. He drink, drink, drinks and then chomp. A blinding grin follows. I try not to shriek and check for blood drips. I keep trying to burn into my memory Dr. Sears' mandate...push the babe into the breast after a bite, not away. It all flitters out of my head as the next bite floods my pain sensors. Seven bites and counting.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
2 Maniacs
"These are days you'll remember.
Never before and never since, I promise, will the whole world be warm as this.
And as you feel it, you'll know its true that you are blessed and lucky.
It's true that you are touched by something that will grow and bloom in you."
My bloom and I were lying in the sunlight taking note of each other. Really, lying nose to nose. Snuggled in on the bed.
He squealed in delight. I mimicked. He giggled.
He shrieked. I echoed. More giggles.
Silence. He looked up at me with his eyes wide. Then he eeked out another unique Spencer-sound. I mirrored. He bubbled over with laughter. The laughter that wrinkles your nose and squints your eyes.
More silence. Spencer-sound. Before I could repeat, his face softened and snickers fell out of his lips. His anticipated! I giggled and squawked out the Spencer-sound. More laughter.
"These are days.
These are the days you might fill with laughter until you break.
These days you might feel a shaft of light make its way across your face.
And when you do you'll know how it was meant to be."
"These are Days" by 10,000 Maniacs
Never before and never since, I promise, will the whole world be warm as this.
And as you feel it, you'll know its true that you are blessed and lucky.
It's true that you are touched by something that will grow and bloom in you."
My bloom and I were lying in the sunlight taking note of each other. Really, lying nose to nose. Snuggled in on the bed.
He squealed in delight. I mimicked. He giggled.
He shrieked. I echoed. More giggles.
Silence. He looked up at me with his eyes wide. Then he eeked out another unique Spencer-sound. I mirrored. He bubbled over with laughter. The laughter that wrinkles your nose and squints your eyes.
More silence. Spencer-sound. Before I could repeat, his face softened and snickers fell out of his lips. His anticipated! I giggled and squawked out the Spencer-sound. More laughter.
"These are days.
These are the days you might fill with laughter until you break.
These days you might feel a shaft of light make its way across your face.
And when you do you'll know how it was meant to be."
"These are Days" by 10,000 Maniacs
Monday, October 15, 2007
Gnawing...
Tonight, bath time took an interesting turn. Somewhere between the bellowing of "Splish Splash" (me) and adoring the rubber ducky (Spence), Spence started sucking on the side of the plastic bath tub. Gnawing more like it. After visions of drowning plodded through my head, I redirected. He nibbled on the washcloth. Something was amiss. After a little investigation, I found 'em.
Teeth. Maybe two.
Little Bugger wouldn't let me near them. I could feel them, but he wouldn't let me see them. He sucked on his bottom lip. Stuck out his tongue. Turned his head. Chomped on his hand.
I kept pushing my fingers in his mouth and feeling around. I was dying to see them. Still am.
Stubborn kiddo. Just like his mom.
(Happy 7 months!)
Teeth. Maybe two.
Little Bugger wouldn't let me near them. I could feel them, but he wouldn't let me see them. He sucked on his bottom lip. Stuck out his tongue. Turned his head. Chomped on his hand.
I kept pushing my fingers in his mouth and feeling around. I was dying to see them. Still am.
Stubborn kiddo. Just like his mom.
(Happy 7 months!)
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Free Range Chicken
There are many joys of having a kid...you could pick up any mama memoir and read them for yourself. But, one of the most overlooked is the ability to dress said child in costume...any day of the week. Take a Wednesday. With one $12.99 costume from Target, it is suddenly transformed into "Chicken Day." I had all sorts of excuses for forcing the screaming Spence into the chicken outfit today. It was cold, cold, cold and the costume was warm, warm, warm. We need a few test runs before Halloween. And well, it is fun.I am one of those people who is always looking for opportunities to coerce friends into dressing up. Add a pair of hoop earrings and some jelly shoes and suddenly you have a total break from reality. You take up a new persona, a new view of the world. And you birth more grins into the world.
But, I am too insecure, too socialized to dress up solo. Insert my partner in crime. Do I dress up with the kiddo? Nope. I let him be my stand in. Yes, I am living vicariously through Spence.
Don't worry. We already started a counseling fund.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
The Product of My Addiction
It's not sex.
It's the baby food.
I am addicted to making baby food. In my freezer, I currently have 14 ziplock bags of food, each with an average of 12 portions. From apples to zucchini. All carefully labeled and frozen into little ice cubes, which are ready to serve at a moments notice.
I have a whole mantra that plays in my head as I am steaming the latest organic veggie that I picked up on sale at the co-op. 'It's social action against commercialism!' I tell myself. A rebellion against multinational corporations that try to tell us that food in a jar is superior to what I can cook. It is a statement for the earth. Organic foods will help make the earth safe for all of us. It is a move that will ensure that Spence is introduced to and loves a wide assortment of foods.
In the 15 minutes it takes to throw together some pluot puree, I have fostered more than just a sense of quick accomplishment. I have convinced myself that I am saving the world.
And my reward?
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Sucking Snot
At around 2 a.m. this morning, Spence moved from "getting sick" to "sick." It was definitive. There was no longer just the illusion of a runny nose. It was there. You could hear it bubbling up near his brain. He wasn't run to the ER sick. Not fever sick. Really, just snotty sick. But at six and a half months, his body had let him down.
In a surprise move, Dave and I remained calm. Dave did not chant "ER" even once. We just pressed number 3 on the phone and hooked up with Bobbie, our advice nurse. She described in detail how to use the pale blue snot sucker and suggested that we get some saline drops.
Bobbie did not, however, mention that using the pale blue snot sucker would be the baby equivalent to Dick Cheney's version of not-torture. His sixth sense kicked in as the knobby device came into view. His screams paralyzed me, rendering me impotent. Dave looked on helplessly. He attempted to rally, but in the end was only able to extract a pin sized wisp of snot. The brook of snot babbled on.
But once again Google and Anastasia saved the day. Over gtalk, Anastasia sagely adviced another device that could divert the course of snot.
My mouth.
Tonight, I walk down my precarious stairs a different woman.
A mama that sucks snot from the nose of her babe.
A wife armed with the best comeback of them all, "Not only did I birth him, but I sucked snot from his nose. With my mouth. It's your turn to rock him back to sleep."
In a surprise move, Dave and I remained calm. Dave did not chant "ER" even once. We just pressed number 3 on the phone and hooked up with Bobbie, our advice nurse. She described in detail how to use the pale blue snot sucker and suggested that we get some saline drops.
Bobbie did not, however, mention that using the pale blue snot sucker would be the baby equivalent to Dick Cheney's version of not-torture. His sixth sense kicked in as the knobby device came into view. His screams paralyzed me, rendering me impotent. Dave looked on helplessly. He attempted to rally, but in the end was only able to extract a pin sized wisp of snot. The brook of snot babbled on.
But once again Google and Anastasia saved the day. Over gtalk, Anastasia sagely adviced another device that could divert the course of snot.
My mouth.
Tonight, I walk down my precarious stairs a different woman.
A mama that sucks snot from the nose of her babe.
A wife armed with the best comeback of them all, "Not only did I birth him, but I sucked snot from his nose. With my mouth. It's your turn to rock him back to sleep."
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