Last night was very, very long.
Drew is about to have his name officially changed to Mr. Cranky Pants. He was up, screaming his little head off, late last night, I was setting up for the garage sale when I got a call from my hubby.
Marty: "Where do you keep the whiskey?"
Me: "Oh, sorry, babe. Bad night?"
Marty: "There is no way you could possibly deal with these kids and their incessant screaming on a regular basis without drinking copious amounts of alcohol, so I know you have a stash somewhere. Now, where do you keep the whiskey?"
Me: giggling "Who's screaming now?"
Marty: "Drew is the main one. He won't go to sleep, so we are sitting here watching TV and eating cheerios."
Me: "Drew's been rough lately. He's teething, so life is hard for him."
Marty: "Life is hard for me right now, too! Do you have a stash of vodka?"
Me: "Sorry, babe, but all I have is that one nip of Jack Daniels that I bought back in February. And if you drink it, you're dead."
Marty: "How dead?"
Me: "Don't. Touch. My. Whiskey!"
Marty: "Fine, be that way. Well, at least I have some Diet Coke, that will be close enough."
Yeah, we talk like this often. But honestly, we rarely drink. We're just too tired to bother.
Anywhoo, Drew screamed till I got home, then kept screaming.
I finally brought him to bed with me at midnight (remember he shares a room with the twins, so when he has a rough night, they do, too.) He didn't settle down till 2am, and then woke every twenty to thirty minutes writhing in pain till 6:30 when he woke up for good.
I took him to the doctor, convinced of another ear infection and possibly something digestive-related, and was told he is teething, nothing more.
Thanks. Thanks a LOT.
I was pretty frustrated at the doctor's office. I saw someone who was not my regular doctor, but someone I had never seen before. It may be that I am horribly sleep deprived right now and super-cranky, but she did not seem to have the best bedside manner.
Seriously, lady, this is my fourth child. If I say I think there's something else going on, don't you think you should listen to me? My regular doctor and nurse would have no problem listening for ten seconds instead of bolting out the door as soon as I start to put his socks back on, yelling, "give him Tylenol and he'll be fine," over her shoulder as she ran.
Yeah, I never thought of that at all.
Oh, and my darling, almost-sixteen-month-old baby boy weighs in at a whopping 20 lbs. 5 oz.
Yup, he's a chunk, that one. If this were 1992, I'd follow that up with a big old, NOT.
OK, I fulfilled my promise that I made yesterday and blogged today. I know, you're probably thinking my time would have been much better spent sleeping, since I'm still just rambling and a rather complain-ey. Oh, well.
This is my blog, and I'm cranky, so I get to cranky-blog. That's my new term I just made up, cranky-blogging. Watch out, world, I'm cranky-blogging today!
(I know, that warning would probably have been more useful at the beginning of this post...)