One Froggy Evening
Mama Dog had reported over the weekend that Baby Dog’s fever was down, but she still had a rough weekend with much crankiness and multiple wakings through the night. When I met them at the BART station last night, Baby Dog was asleep, having finally crashed after a long tantrum on the train ride home. It was all a bit much for a little girl – missing Daddy; going on a weird conveyance that makes your ears hurt and upsets your tummy; being sick; spending two days with Halmonie then missing her when they left; being hungry, tired, and in need of a change all the way back from SFO. She woke up when I took her out of the stroller, and though she seemed confused she was happy to see me. I said “Can you give Daddy a big hug?” and she bobbed forward to kiss me on the lips. I don’t think she knows the difference between “hug” and “kiss,” but that’s perfectly okay. She said “Daddy,” and her poor little froggy croak of a voice made me wince for her.
Having a sick baby at home is remarkably similar to having a newborn again. It wasn’t until 12:30 that I really got what Mama Dog had been through Sunday night. Baby Dog woke up, screaming hoarsely for water. We got her water and I sat with her while she sipped it in her crib. After a few minutes she fell asleep and the sippy cup rolled to the mattress. I waited until I was sure she was completely out, then removed the cup and went back to bed.
At 1:30, she was screaming hoarsely for juice, so we got that, and I sat with her again while she took one sip and fell asleep.
At 2:30, I was too groggy to understand what she was screaming for, but I got the juice out of the fridge and sat down to watch her once more drink herself to sleep, just like her dear old dad used to.
I finally fell back asleep shortly before 3. I don’t think I’d had more than ten minutes’ sleep since 12:30.
With the exception of a couple small cranks and cries, peace reigned until the alarm went off at 6 a.m. A second later, Baby Dog began crying again, this time screaming out “Owl Babies! Owl Babies!” If you don’t have a child, that might seem an odd phrase for her to be screaming at six in the morning. It alludes to one of her favourite books. It’s also one of her first multi-word phrases (along with “Bye-bye, Mummy,” “Bye-bye, Bud (or whomever),” “All done,” and “Move over!” – that last was her first two-word phrase, mimicking Halmonie’s repeated admonition to Doggy Dog). I looked around the room for Owl Babies, but it was dark and I didn’t have my glasses on, so I was effectively blind. I handed her the sippy cup full of juice, but she batted it aside and screamed louder. I picked her up and tried to shush her, but none of it was working. Finally I decided there was no getting her back to sleep, so I might as well just change her diaper and get her ready for breakfast. I laid her down on the changing pad and she turned her head to one side and went to sleep. Go figure. I waited until I was sure I could move her without waking her. She cried out as I put her back in the crib, but didn’t wake. She stayed conked out until I was just about ready to leave at 7:45. At least somebody got a good night’s sleep. Come to think of it, the dog seemed pretty well rested too.
In other odd bits of favershammal business –
The hit tracker has been going a little apeshit the last couple weeks with all sorts of hits from image searches, mostly from Europe, and mostly searches for this image of the Hiroshima bomb. I was completely drawing a blank on when I might have linked that image. I had to scour through the archives to remember that in mid-July I did this post about a long-ago trip through New Mexico. The reference to Little Boy is so scant and peripheral I can’t believe its relevance rates so high up in Google Denmark and Yahoo Belgium, but there you go. You never know what kind of irrelevant nonsense you’re going to come across when you let the search engine do your research for you.
Apparently, many Europeans are also relying on me for a glance at young Mark Lester, whose image I linked to when I mentioned that we watched Oliver!.
Also – that King of the Hill mini-poll I have up. I’ve noticed an odd trend in the votes. People who know me are voting for Dale. I reluctantly agree that of the three, he’s the one I come closest to resembling. People who come to the faversham randomly – like through Google Denmark image searches – invariably vote for Bill. I’m assuming they do this solely for the sake of being anonymously insulting. Deadbeat Eurotrash ratfucks.
Anyway, the funny thing is, when Baby Dog used to point at the fridge magnet and say “Daddy” (she hasn’t actually done this in some weeks now), I initially assumed that she meant either Dale (glasses, hair colour) or Boomhauer (wardrobe). One day when she said “Daddy” at the magnet, I took it down, held it up to her, and said, “Which one’s Daddy?” You guessed it. She pointed at Bill. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth is an infant daughter’s perception of her old dada.
I guess this means I might as well take the poll down soon.
Having a sick baby at home is remarkably similar to having a newborn again. It wasn’t until 12:30 that I really got what Mama Dog had been through Sunday night. Baby Dog woke up, screaming hoarsely for water. We got her water and I sat with her while she sipped it in her crib. After a few minutes she fell asleep and the sippy cup rolled to the mattress. I waited until I was sure she was completely out, then removed the cup and went back to bed.
At 1:30, she was screaming hoarsely for juice, so we got that, and I sat with her again while she took one sip and fell asleep.
At 2:30, I was too groggy to understand what she was screaming for, but I got the juice out of the fridge and sat down to watch her once more drink herself to sleep, just like her dear old dad used to.
I finally fell back asleep shortly before 3. I don’t think I’d had more than ten minutes’ sleep since 12:30.
With the exception of a couple small cranks and cries, peace reigned until the alarm went off at 6 a.m. A second later, Baby Dog began crying again, this time screaming out “Owl Babies! Owl Babies!” If you don’t have a child, that might seem an odd phrase for her to be screaming at six in the morning. It alludes to one of her favourite books. It’s also one of her first multi-word phrases (along with “Bye-bye, Mummy,” “Bye-bye, Bud (or whomever),” “All done,” and “Move over!” – that last was her first two-word phrase, mimicking Halmonie’s repeated admonition to Doggy Dog). I looked around the room for Owl Babies, but it was dark and I didn’t have my glasses on, so I was effectively blind. I handed her the sippy cup full of juice, but she batted it aside and screamed louder. I picked her up and tried to shush her, but none of it was working. Finally I decided there was no getting her back to sleep, so I might as well just change her diaper and get her ready for breakfast. I laid her down on the changing pad and she turned her head to one side and went to sleep. Go figure. I waited until I was sure I could move her without waking her. She cried out as I put her back in the crib, but didn’t wake. She stayed conked out until I was just about ready to leave at 7:45. At least somebody got a good night’s sleep. Come to think of it, the dog seemed pretty well rested too.
In other odd bits of favershammal business –
The hit tracker has been going a little apeshit the last couple weeks with all sorts of hits from image searches, mostly from Europe, and mostly searches for this image of the Hiroshima bomb. I was completely drawing a blank on when I might have linked that image. I had to scour through the archives to remember that in mid-July I did this post about a long-ago trip through New Mexico. The reference to Little Boy is so scant and peripheral I can’t believe its relevance rates so high up in Google Denmark and Yahoo Belgium, but there you go. You never know what kind of irrelevant nonsense you’re going to come across when you let the search engine do your research for you.
Apparently, many Europeans are also relying on me for a glance at young Mark Lester, whose image I linked to when I mentioned that we watched Oliver!.
Also – that King of the Hill mini-poll I have up. I’ve noticed an odd trend in the votes. People who know me are voting for Dale. I reluctantly agree that of the three, he’s the one I come closest to resembling. People who come to the faversham randomly – like through Google Denmark image searches – invariably vote for Bill. I’m assuming they do this solely for the sake of being anonymously insulting. Deadbeat Eurotrash ratfucks.
Anyway, the funny thing is, when Baby Dog used to point at the fridge magnet and say “Daddy” (she hasn’t actually done this in some weeks now), I initially assumed that she meant either Dale (glasses, hair colour) or Boomhauer (wardrobe). One day when she said “Daddy” at the magnet, I took it down, held it up to her, and said, “Which one’s Daddy?” You guessed it. She pointed at Bill. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth is an infant daughter’s perception of her old dada.
I guess this means I might as well take the poll down soon.
posted by PapaDogDuvalier | 11:20 AM
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