What we've got here, punkin, is a failure to communicate.
So we get what we had last night.
Which is the way you want it.
Well, you gets it.
The problem, I think, stems from the fact that you have been, in the past weeks, very very sick. So sick, in fact, that keeping food where it belongs in your tummy was quite outside the realm of your capabilities. This being the case, your mother and I made the executive decision to remove the cheese sandwich from your sulinary repertoire and replace it with your most favoured cuisine, le b00b.
Unfortunately, you appear to be of the opinion that said b00b should be available for your snacking upon 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Given that the object of your culinary affections is attached to your mother, who is rivalled only by some of Lewis Carroll's less well known literary creations in her dedication to the arts of sleep, it appears that we are at an impasse, a mexican standoff if you will.
You are, however, at a distinct disadvantage.
This disadvantage being that your parents are of the opinion that they will be able to outlast you. That tonight, as with last night, when you awake and begin screaming for your room service, a sleepy hand will reach out from under the covers of the parental suite and the monitor will be turned down. A pillow will be placed firmly over a parental head, eyes will be closed and ears will be shut.
We will stand fast, punkin, through all manner of cajoling. All cries from your wing of the estate will be resolutely ignored. All screams, yells, thumps, shouts and other noises of indeterminate nomenclature will be quickly triaged according to a system designed to avoid at almost any cost the requirement for a parent to arise.
At a predetermined time, a parent will attend your bedchamber in order to assure ourselves that you are not ACTUALLY choking or beating your head against the wall, and then return to the parental sleepchamber.
At No Time will you be removed from your cot.
At No Time will there be any room service.
Jus Du Boob, Monsuier, is Off The Menu between 8pm and 6am.
March 09, 2006
March 08, 2006
Choppy McChopperson
The Peeny-Deeny clan, punkling, including the Kawasakus and other sections thereof, does Not Do Things By Half.
We were not, then, therefore, particularly surprised when we realised that there is a specific reason that you've been screaming so much over the last couple of days.
On gazing into your bechompered mouth, it becomes obvious that you're attempting to make up for your dental deficit in one fell swoop. It would seem that you're attempting to grow ALL of your teeth at the same time.
Of course, much like many of the bulldozer style plans that we undertake, this full frontal assault has significant drawbacks, not least of which is your decision to cease sleeping like a proper normal person and begin sleeping like some crazed demon child. Again.
It's tough dealing with this, mostly because we're not entirely sure how to make you feel better this time, but as with all the other less easy parts of this whole parenting deal, I'm sure we'll get there in the end.
Your mum and I are both very busy with work at the moment, so it's all feeling a bit hectic and rushed at Casa Peeny-Deeny, particularly in the mornings, but we seem to be able to cope surpisingly well with the need to get three people ready to scoot out the door in the AM, today your mum even managed to pack a lunch for me, which was a lovely surprise.
We were not, then, therefore, particularly surprised when we realised that there is a specific reason that you've been screaming so much over the last couple of days.
On gazing into your bechompered mouth, it becomes obvious that you're attempting to make up for your dental deficit in one fell swoop. It would seem that you're attempting to grow ALL of your teeth at the same time.
Of course, much like many of the bulldozer style plans that we undertake, this full frontal assault has significant drawbacks, not least of which is your decision to cease sleeping like a proper normal person and begin sleeping like some crazed demon child. Again.
It's tough dealing with this, mostly because we're not entirely sure how to make you feel better this time, but as with all the other less easy parts of this whole parenting deal, I'm sure we'll get there in the end.
Your mum and I are both very busy with work at the moment, so it's all feeling a bit hectic and rushed at Casa Peeny-Deeny, particularly in the mornings, but we seem to be able to cope surpisingly well with the need to get three people ready to scoot out the door in the AM, today your mum even managed to pack a lunch for me, which was a lovely surprise.
March 01, 2006
Where were we?
Ah yes, you and your mother in separate hospitals 400m apart.
And you were ensconsed in the short stay ward, under the watchful eyes of Harry and Liz and I was trying to coordinate how to make sure I was spending enough time with both of you.
You, punkin, had come off your drip at about 6am, and your mum was recovering well on fluids, and FINALLY getting some sleep. It all looked promising for everyone concerned to go home from the horsepickle on that day (Saturday).
I left your mum sleeping at her hospital and came down to see you and Harry. The doctor said that he thought you were doing well, and that we should be able to discharge you later that day. Thinking that it would make sense to give your mum some more time to sleep, we went back up to the other hospital to get her and take her home. Her doctor said that she would have to take AT LEAST a week off work, and that she should rest as much as possible in that time.
We grabbed your mum and spirited her out of there, stopping by to see you on the way, and let you have some boobjuice, then we took your mother home. I got her settled, grabbed some supplies (including Harry's PSP), and headed back into the hospickamickal to take care of you for the final push.
By the time I got back to the Children's, you were looking much better than when I'd last had a chance to get a good look at you. Whilst by no means your usual perky bouncy grinning self, you did manage a smile or two and the frenetic pace of the last few days began to slow down just enough for me to catch my breath. I got you down to sleep, played playstation for a while and just had a chance to relax.
Once you woke up, the doctor and I took a look at you and we decided that it was about time for you to come home.
That, punkin, barring the intervention of a gigantic thunderstorm, marked the end of your little hospital adventure for the weekend. We'd spent a total of about 40 hours in various hospital wards around town, and found out exactly how much puke can come out of a tiny wee bairn.
Of course, the bullet I'd been dodging through this whole time caught me on Saturday night with a venegance. I didn't cop this gastro bug anywhere near as badly as the other people in our family did, but I was pretty sick on Saturday night and on Sunday.
You're home with your mum now, we're all very tired because you're not sleeping so well just yet, and your mother is still not 100% recovered. You're still a bit vomity and not happy and clingy, but you're home and you grin at me and laugh when I tickle you and this whole adventure has just made me appreciate every second I get to spend with you so so so much more. Keep getting better, punkin.
Love you.
And you were ensconsed in the short stay ward, under the watchful eyes of Harry and Liz and I was trying to coordinate how to make sure I was spending enough time with both of you.
You, punkin, had come off your drip at about 6am, and your mum was recovering well on fluids, and FINALLY getting some sleep. It all looked promising for everyone concerned to go home from the horsepickle on that day (Saturday).
I left your mum sleeping at her hospital and came down to see you and Harry. The doctor said that he thought you were doing well, and that we should be able to discharge you later that day. Thinking that it would make sense to give your mum some more time to sleep, we went back up to the other hospital to get her and take her home. Her doctor said that she would have to take AT LEAST a week off work, and that she should rest as much as possible in that time.
We grabbed your mum and spirited her out of there, stopping by to see you on the way, and let you have some boobjuice, then we took your mother home. I got her settled, grabbed some supplies (including Harry's PSP), and headed back into the hospickamickal to take care of you for the final push.
By the time I got back to the Children's, you were looking much better than when I'd last had a chance to get a good look at you. Whilst by no means your usual perky bouncy grinning self, you did manage a smile or two and the frenetic pace of the last few days began to slow down just enough for me to catch my breath. I got you down to sleep, played playstation for a while and just had a chance to relax.
Once you woke up, the doctor and I took a look at you and we decided that it was about time for you to come home.
That, punkin, barring the intervention of a gigantic thunderstorm, marked the end of your little hospital adventure for the weekend. We'd spent a total of about 40 hours in various hospital wards around town, and found out exactly how much puke can come out of a tiny wee bairn.
Of course, the bullet I'd been dodging through this whole time caught me on Saturday night with a venegance. I didn't cop this gastro bug anywhere near as badly as the other people in our family did, but I was pretty sick on Saturday night and on Sunday.
You're home with your mum now, we're all very tired because you're not sleeping so well just yet, and your mother is still not 100% recovered. You're still a bit vomity and not happy and clingy, but you're home and you grin at me and laugh when I tickle you and this whole adventure has just made me appreciate every second I get to spend with you so so so much more. Keep getting better, punkin.
Love you.
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