I did not know her but I did read her. Punk Rock Mommy passed away this morning.

Our thoughts and prayers are with her family.

As I mentioned in my previous post, Ben was all about trying to nurse at the fireworks show. I dressed for the occassion (as I always do) and was very discreet (as I always am) whenever I did nurse him. Unfortunately, as is the luck with Eric & I at public get-togethers, we ended up seated next to one of the loudest and most annoying families in the entire park.

They descended upon us after we’d already chosen our perfect spot in the grass. The kids were wrestling, popping those confetti bottles with no regard for the baby (my luck at parks sucks) and one of the dads kept yelling, “I LOVE AERIAL BOMBS! WAIT TILL WE SEE THE AERIAL BOMBS! MY FRIEND BROKE HIS FOOT SO HE AIN’T BEEN HUNTING…FOR AERIAL BOMBS! I’M GONNA DRINK BEER WHEN I WATCH THE AERIAL BOMBS! AERIAL BOMBS! AERIAL BOMBS! AERIAL BOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMBS!” Then proceeded to run in a circle screaming, “BOOM BOOM BOOM” and peeing on the lesser men in the audience.*

So, at one point, I’m nursing Ben and I look up just in time to catch the aerial bomb dad trying to catch the eye of the other dad by wiggling his beer at him. He then proceeds to smile knowingly, wink and nod in my direction. He caught me glaring at him just then and averted his eyes immediately. I shot the same look at the other dad just in time to catch him turning his head to look at me. Yet another eye aversion.

What the hell is up with that? Seriously. If you’re giving me the “hey, something dirty’s going on over there” look, then why not oogle? Is it because I look like the kind of girl who’d kick your ass? Or because you know you’re a raging idiot for trying to sexualize just knowing my baby’s nursing? Because, Lord knows, you couldn’t see any skin. I had clothing surrounding every possible side. Or maybe it was because I said, very loudly, “Oh yeah, because me feeding my son is totally more annoying than your kid screaming at the top of his lungs.”

*Actions mentioned in this sentence may or may not have happened.

Despite being late, forgetting my camera, screaming and cursing all the way back to get my camera, parking a mile away, realizing we forgot the stroller and schlepping a 40lb diaper bag that entire way, Ben’s first 4th of July went pretty well. He did very well until the fireworks started and then his day of napping protest caught up to him. He went between wildly wiggling his arms at the fireworks, cheering along with the little girls behind us (they’d say “WOOH!” he’d say “GABADABABADAAAAAA!”) and trying to rip my shirt up while screaming at the top of his lungs.

At about the height of his “I’m dying! DYING!” freak out, a father walked behind us with his very unhappy son. “Look! Look at the fireworks.”
“Noooooooo, daddy! I don’t WANNA look!”

For a moment, I thought Ben was speaking and I was shocked. I mean, with the amount of f-bombs and sailor talk that was flying out of my mouth on the way down, I expected something a lot more creative than that.

On Monday at 3am, I was awakened by an extremely hot baby hollering at the window fan. He and I were up until 6 – chatting, pointing at the fan, nursing (him, not me). He was a happy camper, just a hot, happy camper.

By Monday evening, his temp hit nearly 103 and I.freaked.out because that is what I do when I see a number above 100 on the thermometer. I called an advice nurse and made an appointment for Wednesday morning. She, very sweetly, said, “You can always cancel the appointment, even 5 minutes beforehand if he’s doing better. Tonight, you can call the after hours line if there is a crisis…uh..I mean…oh! I’m sorry! I just mean…” It’s okay, I understand. She means if his temperature goes up one more iota, I can call the after hours number and freak out on the nurse who will remind me that, “we don’t worry until it hits 4 billion.” Then I can curse to my husband and cry to my mom that no one takes my baby’s brain boiling out of his head seriously.

The Tuesday appointment was like watching a detective work. He had a fever, that we knew. Could it be his belly? Maybe his head? Was it the snake I let him touch at the aquarium? Maybe the anti-bacterial hand wash I used afterwards? Earache? This is going to be so much easier when he can talk.

She began with mildly annoying him by attempting to look in his ears which was nearly impossible since he has full control over flipping his head side to side when anyone tries to touch his ears. She ended with, “let me look at his mouth…there’s an illness that can cause ulcers on the gums and throat.” which was quite a bit easier since his mouth had taken over his entire face with the amount of screaming his was doing. Because, how dare she look in his mouth. May as well have ripped off his leg and eaten it in front of him because that is the exact.same.thing.

“Ah, yep. Have you ever heard of hand, foot and mouth?” Yes. Yes, I have. My friends’ babies have had a sudden outbreak of it this month. Somehow, they managed to transmit the disease to my child through the internets…all three of them.

I call mom to tell her he has hand, foot and mouth. “Oh, you’re such a bad liar. You’re such a liar.” Apparently, she first thought I made up the name because I really am that creative. Then she thought I meant the cow disease. My dad’s response, “Oh Jesus! What the HELL is that?!” Nice to know my baby is helping me carry on my goal of continuously horrifying my parents.

He’s feeling quite a bit better. Although, he’s still cranky and doesn’t want anything to do with anyone but mommy the boobs. I knew he was feeling better the moment he woke me by standing up straight in bed, pointing to the fan and screaming, at the top of his lungs, “DAAAAAAAAAAAAATS!” At 5:30am.