(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: The Best 3 Days of Bubba’s Life

Bubba has had quite an exciting few days. Granted, it doesn’t take much to excite a toddler…

First, on Sunday, we went to a birthday party for my niece held at The Little Gym. If you’re unfamiliar, The Little Gym is basically just a giant room with a bunch of mats and stuff for kids to climb around on. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t describe that very well. What I meant to say was that it is TODDLER HEAVEN:

He loved it so much I couldn’t even get a good picture of him, because he was moving around too fast — with the exception of the two photos above, every shot I took that day came out like this:

So he was already having a pretty good weekend. But then on Monday we upped the ante by going to a Memorial Day festival at the beach…and due to holiday parking issues, we had to park off-site and take a shuttle bus down to the beach. Did you know that toddlers LOVE busses? Apparently, they do, because Bubba was just beside himself with excitement:

I think he could have stared out that window and watched the cars in the neighboring lanes for an hour.

And it got even better when we arrived at the beach, since he got to partake in his all-time favorite activity: THROWING SAND EVERYWHERE!!!

Finally, just when he thought life couldn’t get any better, I blew his mind yesterday by doing a google image search for “dump trucks” and then handing him the iPad to scroll through. I might as well have given him an actual dump truck, judging by his level of excitement. Maybe for Christmas this year I’ll just show him pictures of toys instead of giving him actual presents:

 

I hope your week is going as well as Bubba’s — but I doubt it!

Top Ten Tuesday: Is This Marathon Over Yet?!

It was a rocky road, but I did it: I trained for that damn marathon. To recap, in case you don’t religiously read (and memorize) my every word, here’s a brief summary of my marathon training: I hate running but decided to embark on this stupid journey in spite of that pesky little fact; my plans were nearly derailed when I slipped in a pothole like an idiot and sprained my ankle, but I took a couple of weeks off to let it heal and then purchased a treadmill (the installation of which nearly resulted in domestic violence between my husband and I) to complete my training.

All caught up? Great.

Anyway, the marathon is this Sunday, so the training part of things is pretty much done. All that’s left this week is a couple of 3 mile runs and some carbo-loading, and I’m ready to race!

And then this stupid thing will FINALLY BE OVER. I can’t wait! Let me count the ways…

The Top Ten Reasons I’m Giddy With Glee That This Marathon Madness Is (Almost) Over:

10) Time (and brain-space) for blogging: All I do is run, and all I think about is running and boring running-related topics like “what should I eat before my next run” and “I sure would like to eat In N Out after my run.” This has made blogging difficult these past few months. I look forward to having time and energy to come up with posts more exciting than “The Top Ten Reasons I’m Giddy With Glee That This Marathon Madness Is (Almost) Over” (sorry about that cop out, by the way).

9) Sleeping in: Way back when Bubba was an infant, TFW and I worked out a nice routine: he gets up with the baby on Saturdays and lets me sleep in, and I do the same for him on Sunday. But for the past few months, I’ve been sacrificing my sacred Saturday sleep-in so that I can get my long training run out of the way early, meaning I haven’t slept past 8am in ages (and most days I’m up much earlier)! I am literally counting down the days till next week when my Sleep-In Saturdays shall resume.

8) No more funky tan lines: On the bright side, my calves are a lovely golden hue! Too bad my upper legs and my feet are bright white.

7) No more soreness: Everything hurts. Always. And I don’t just mean my legs and feet — why do my shoulders hurt after running? What am I doing wrong?

6) Cooking dinner: Who’s got time for making actual meals after working all day and then running?! Not this lady, I’ll tell you that. I look forward to making something that didn’t come from the freezer or involve the word “sandwich” someday in the near future.

5) Seeing my husband: I vaguely recall being married to a handsome and kind fellow. Let’s hope he still recognizes me when I’m wearing something other than running gear.

4) Rehabbing my feet: I have hideous man-feet to begin with (and that’s really an insult to men; these hooves are truly appalling). Add in blisters, callouses, and a dead blackened toenail or two, and it’s pure fright night. I’m hoping they’ll look more presentable by the time my sister’s wedding rolls around in August so I don’t have to wear some sort of school-marm loafers to the event.

3) Cleaning my house: Yes, I’m actually looking forward to this. I love a clean house, but, like the cooking, who’s got time or energy at the end of the day?

2) Straightening my hair: As a rule, my hair only looks good when I take the time to straighten it (and “good” is a stretch, really). Unfortunately, I have enough hair for sixteen people and it takes a solid hour to straighten. Since it gets disgustingly sweaty within minutes of even a light jog, there just hasn’t been any point in bothering with it, so I’ve been residing in frizzed-up ponytail-ville for most of the last few months. Between my hair, the hooves, and the tan lines, it’s a sad state of affairs over here. Poor TFW.

1) Doing things on the weekend like a normal human: I cannot overstate how much running has monopolized my time. And when we do go out and do something, I’m limping around, exhausted because I just ran six hundred miles (approximately), making it hard to keep up with this little fellow:

Six more days, folks! SIX DAYS AND I’M DONE!

(Someone please remind me of this post next month when I get bored and decide I should sign up for another marathon.)

50 Ways to Tell Your Toddler to Stop

If you’ve ever had the misfortune of being in charge of a toddler for more than 10 consecutive minutes, you’ve probably found yourself repeating some iteration of “STOP THAT!” until you were blue in the face. Toddlers have a natural inclination towards adventure but have zero common sense or perception of potential danger, so your primary job as the adult in charge of this live-action danger machine is to make sure he or she doesn’t endure grave bodily harm by doing something stupid like catapulting off the couch. Protecting your valuables and electronics is a secondary goal — I don’t know at what age children begin to understand that throwing heavy objects at television sets is NOT a good idea, but they definitely haven’t figured that out by 17 months.

All this cease-and-desist ordering can get tiresome, though, so I’m here to help you spice things up! I’ve got fifty toddler-ready pleas for you to add to your arsenal so you no longer have to sound like a broken record when you find your child perched up on top of the coffee table, naked, hurling blocks at your dog:

1. Please stop.
2. That’s enough, Bud.
3. Enough!
4. Cool it.
5. Dude…no.
6. Let Mama do that for you.
7. AAAAAAAH!
8. Danger! Danger!
9. NOOOOOO!
10. Don’t touch that, please.
11. Come on!
12. That’s not a good idea.
13. No, we’re not gonna do that right now.
14. No touching!
15. DON’T PUSH THOSE BUTTONS!!!
16. Get down from there, please.
17. Get down from there before you kill yourself!!!
18. GET. DOWN. NOW.
19. Sit on your bottom.
20. Can you just…not do that?
21. Don’t be a maniac.
22. C’mon, seriously.
23. I mean it!
24. WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!
25. Look! It’s Cookie Monster!
26. Look! Actual cookies! You can eat them if you stop that!
27. Mama said NO.
28. Dad said NO.
29. You’re gonna get a booboo!
30. Chill out, please.
31. That doesn’t look like a good idea, Bud.
32. Don’t even think about it.
33. Come over here to Mama.
34. I am BEGGING you to stop.
35. Put that down.
36. No throwing!
37. How about being a normal human being for three seconds? Wanna try that out?
38. Calm down.
39. Don’t jump!
40. Why don’t you come sit in Mama’s lap?
41. Stop kicking me, it hurts.
42. Be gentle, please.
43. ACK! GENTLE! GENTLE!
44. That’s a no-no.
45. Be a good boy, please.
46. PLEEEEEEASE STOOOOOOOOP. PLEASE!
47. That’s not for throwing.
48. Don’t stand up on that!
49. Be nice to Mama!
50. [Unintelligible pleading through sobs of exhaustion]

Unfortunately, none of these will actually work.

I Love Him, BUT…

My son is really, truly fantastic. He’s lively and funny and cuddly and I’m pretty sure he’s a genius, assuming the baseline for toddler genius is pointing to the letter “A” and shouting “AAAYYYYY!” like The Fonz.

He’s cute, too:

Having said all that, I could really do without the hair pulling, even if it is accompanied by the joyful shrieks of a lad who clearly means no harm. And the biting. And the pinching. I am living under constant attack over here! Oh, and the nonsense with the THROWING OF EVERYTHING AT MY HEAD has got to stop. Plastic blocks have sharp corners! And some of those board books are heavy!

Speaking of books…I’m glad that he so enjoys being read to, but must we read the same books over and over and over (and over and over) again?! WE GET IT, YOU LIKE TRAINS AND TRUCKS. CHOO CHOO. BEEP BEEP. God help me.

And if he likes those books so freakin’ much, why can’t we ever FINISH them? Without fail, one or two pages from the end, Bubba slams the book shut (and then throws it at me, if he’s got a good angle) and scampers off to grab another book. I want to know what happens at the construction site at the end of the day, dude! Does the dump truck go to sleep or what?

The child is a maniac. If he didn’t spend all day running around at daycare and getting adequately tuckered out, I am pretty sure he would be up until 11pm every night, just doing laps around the house and sing-screaming “WHY-AN-ZEE WHY-AN-ZEE WHY-AN-ZEE!” (as in, y and z from the alphabet song, duh), pausing occasionally to point to his shirt and proclaim “DEE-TRAH!” (dump truck, duh) whether or not the shirt in question actually happens to be adorned with a construction rig of any sort (one of his shirts has an excavator on it. ONE. And yes, I know it’s an excavator because I read all about them in that damn construction site book sixteen times a day).

Can someone please tell me at what age a child can be expected to sit quietly in front of the TV for ten minutes?

Or at least sit quietly in my lap long enough for me to get to the end of a book?

Mommy’s tired.

(I still wouldn’t trade him, though. CHOO CHOO!)

Why I’ll Never Get a Boob Job (Even Though I Really Want One)

A couple weeks ago, my husband posted a photo of my boob to Facebook, and no one noticed.

TFW didn’t notice when he took the photo, and he obviously didn’t notice it when he uploaded it to Facebook, either (he certainly wasn’t trying to show off my goodies). Facebook’s notoriously overzealous censors didn’t catch it, nor did any of our hundreds of Facebook friends — several people commented on what a cute photo it was, but no one seemed to notice that an adult woman’s breast was in full view!

Of course, when I fired up Facebook sometime later in the afternoon and noticed the photo on my page, I saw the offending boobage immediately. I will confess to briefly debating the merits of leaving it up there since it is otherwise a fairly flattering photo of me — my hair, in particular, looks nice and frizz-free — but ultimately I decided that I was not interested in displaying my nipple to the world without at least getting paid, so I made him delete it.

Now, you’re probably wondering two things at this point:

1. Why was your boob hanging out in the first place?
2. How the hell did no one notice?! Surely you can’t be serious!

The answer to both of those questions is the same: my boobs are very, very small. My boob was exposed because I was bending over and there was a giant gap between my child-sized brassiere and my breast (because the aforementioned tiny bra was still too large for its even tinier occupant), and no one noticed because, well, there’s really nothing for anyone to notice. They probably thought my nipple was a button on my sweater or something.

Here’s a tasteful Photoshopped version of my debut as a topless model:

See?

Anyway, while this incident was amusing, it obviously wasn’t alerting me to a new problem; I’ve been small-chested forever (with the brief but glorious exception of those fleeting breastfeeding days, of course). It did temporarily reignite my desire for a surgical fix, though. The option of getting an augmentation has crossed my mind many times over the years, and with this latest reminder of the ridiculous non-size of my poor boobs, it’s been on my mind a lot.

Alas, as usual, I’ve determined that it simply will never be reality.

I’m not worried about the possibility of looking ridiculous — my hypothetical boob job would be very modest indeed, perhaps enlarging my breasts just enough so that they would fit into normal human-sized bras instead of leaving gaping spaces that make me vulnerable to unintended flashing when I bend over in low-cut tops. And the cost isn’t prohibitive, either. I’ve crunched the numbers, and a boob job could easily be saved up for in short order if I were to make subtle changes to my budget, such as not drinking my weight in Dr. Pepper every week.

No, my concern is that damn anesthesia.

Specifically, the fact that people DIE while under anesthesia. It happens, you guys.

And do you know how stupid it would be for Bubba to have to go through life saying “my mom died while getting a boob job” every time someone asked him about his family?!

Very, very stupid. The requisite sympathy he would be due for having a deceased parent would go out the window immediately; people would be choking back guffaws as they listened to the poor lad tell the tale: “yeah, she was perfectly healthy, but she really wanted to fit into this cute 32B bra from Victoria’s Secret…”

I can’t do it to him.

But if anyone knows of a plastic surgeon who is willing to shove some silicone under my skin without the aid of anesthesia (can’t we just use some novacaine like a dental procedure? I have a high pain tolerance!), I will gladly accept your referral.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesay: Mother’s Day!

Mother’s Day 2012 was my first as a Certified Mama. Bubba was five months old, so one might think that at that point I would have had plenty of time to adjust to the crazy parenting life and not be so frazzled, but you’d be wrong.

I was too exhausted to give much thought to taking quality photos, for one thing. We tried for one family photo and then I was over it, despite the blurry result:

I also made a rookie mistake that day, neglecting to pack enough costume changes for our afternoon at my mom’s house. Bubba spent most of the day naked:

And I think I spent a total of 16 seconds on my own appearance, which certainly seemed to alarm poor Bubba:

This year, I’ve got my shit together! I put on makeup like a normal person and dressed the baby in his most dapper duds:

Of course, that darling hat only stayed on his head for a grand total of less than 2 seconds (I’m amazed TFW was even able to snap a single photo as evidence of the fleeting cuteness), but he still looked adorable in his remaining finery:

Like last year, though, he wound up naked by the end of the day:

It’s good to see not too much has changed.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Mystery Allergy Theater

This may come as a shock, considering my well-documented love for true-crime documentaries, but I am not a fan of mysteries. When it comes to the crime shows, I am not particularly interested in the mystery aspect; I just like to be told how they figured it all out. Don’t even get me started on Unsolved Mysteries — I get anxious just thinking about that program.

I am even more adverse to mysteries in real life, and especially with regard to my child. Is there anything more maddening than having a problem and not knowing that’s causing it?!

Unfortunately, we’ve got a real head-scratcher going on over here with Bubba’s skin. The saga started a few weeks ago when he developed a splotchy red rash on his back, chest, and arms. It didn’t seem to be bothering him and the doctor said not to worry about it when I called to inquire, so I did what any fantastic mother would do: ignored it.

A few days after that brilliant plan, the mottled skin morphed into a mass of hives and a swollen face, necessitating a trip to Urgent Care and a cycle of steroids that made him act like a maniac but cleared things up for the most part.

The reprieve produced by the ‘roids proved to be short-lived, though, and we were back in the doctor’s office yet again the following week. This time, the doctor agreed that something was amiss (duh) and that whatever poor Bubba was experiencing was not just a funky fluke of some sort. She gave me a referral for an allergy specialist and I made the first available appointment, which was two weeks in the future (because a toddler’s hives are apparently not cause for more immediate concern, I suppose?!).

As we waited for the appointment day to finally arrive, Bubba’s symptoms ebbed and flowed. Some days he looked a lot better, and others he looked like a sad little tomato. And to make matters worse, the problem was no longer just cosmetic: the itchiness set in and nothing we did seemed to make it better. He was guzzling Benadryl and marinading in cortisone cream, but he was still scratching like crazy and screaming all night long — 1am “please fall asleep” cruises in the car have become the norm around here

And the appointment with the allergist was still a week away!

Yesterday, I reached my breaking point. An hour after dropping Bubba off at daycare, at which point he had a few rashy spots but overall looked OK, the daycare owner called me. While Bubba screamed his head off in the background, she informed me that his rash had spread big-time and that I needed to take him to the doctor immediately. I ran over to retrieve the pathetic lad and then made an impassioned plea to the receptionist at the allergist’s office: see my son TODAY! He cannot wait until next week! More importantly, I cannot wait until next week because this kid can’t sleep, and guess who has to deal with that all night?!

Luckily, they agreed to see him — which made me feel like the worst mom ever for not just insisting on an earlier appointment back when I made the initial call — so TFW took him right over (I have very limited time off work and these things are tricky for me; cue more worst-mom-ever guilty feelings). I was sad that Bubba was so uncomfortable, but I was quite happy that we were finally going to get some answers! Surely the allergist would be able to sort out the problem and provide us with some solutions!

After a two-hour appointment and some reportedly very unpleasant skin testing (I am kind of glad to have missed that; I probably would have cried right along with the kid), the doctor had precisely ZERO answers.

The testing didn’t show any reactions, but apparently it’s only 30% accurate, so we can’t actually conclude anything from that (so what was the point?!). The doctor was not willing to wager a guess even as to whether the allergy appeared to be from something he was ingesting or from something topical — he made a couple suggestions for both types of allergies (avoid flaxseed since that’s a common hive-causing allergen; try different laundry detergent and buy 50 different expensive soaps and lotions) and prescribed yet another antihistamine to help with the symptoms.

Now, is it just me, or does that seem COMPLETELY UNHELPFUL!? First of all, if we eliminate flaxseed and also make all these soap and lotion changes, how will we know what change made the difference (assuming his rash does indeed improve)? Second, what are we supposed to do with the antihistamine — just give it to Bubba forever? What happens when we stop it?

And what if none of this works and he remains an itchy, red mess and I go bankrupt because I bought so much freakin Cetaphil?

Send help. And Cetaphil.

at least his shades match his rash

The Time My Former Teacher Called Me a Disappointment

Ten years ago, when I was in the midst of the first of my two major life crises (you can read up on that here if you enjoy a good trainwreck), I took a job as a waitress at a local restaurant while I tried to sort out my life and my plans for the future. I wasn’t planning on being a waitress forever (not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course), but I certainly wasn’t ashamed of my job. Considering all my other problems, my career path was at the bottom of my list of concerns. Plus, I was an awesome waitress, if I do say so myself (and I totally do).

The restaurant was in my hometown, so naturally I ran into a lot of former classmates, teachers, and neighbors. I know some people cringe at the very thought of having to encounter (and wait on!) past acquaintances after leaving town, but it didn’t bother me. Again, I had more important things to worry about than what some random girl from my high school was wearing or what my sixth grade softball coach was eating for dinner. In fact, I quite enjoyed seeing people from my past — they always seemed happy to see me, and after such a miserable couple of years it was refreshing and reassuring to be reminded that there were people in the world who knew me just as “that nice girl I went to school with” rather than “that poor pathetic chick whose life is a shambles.”

One day, I came out from the kitchen and was delighted to see my beloved second grade teacher being sat at a table in my section. This woman was a true gem: the type of teacher who calls her class a “family” and never loses her patience with oversensitive crybaby little girls (ahem). She was a favorite of everyone who was taught by her, myself included, and I always felt that I had been a favorite of hers, too — she was so very kind to me when I was her student, and whenever I saw her in the years that followed she always expressed genuine interest in how I was doing. Even though I hadn’t seen her in about five years, I was certain she’d remember me when I told her my name.

As it turned out, I didn’t even have to refresh her memory — she recognized me instantly. She smiled broadly when she saw my face, but it faded as she gave me a once-over. I watched her expression change from one of friendly recognition to one of…disgust? I started to panic. Had my shirt come unbuttoned? Did I have something in my teeth, or hanging out of my nose? Was I emitting an offensive odor?

I addressed her tentatively, bewildered by her very apparent unpleasant reaction. “Um, hi!” I stammered. “It’s me, Mo.”

Her response was more an attack than a greeting. “What are you doing here?!” She sounded truly appalled, and my confusion mounted. “You’re supposed to be DOING something with yourself!”

Her disappointment was palpable. I almost vomited. My heart literally ached. I knew that my life was off track, but to hear it from someone else — someone who had once complimented my super-fast multiplication skills and given me stickers to cheer me up when I cried at recess — was crushing.

I don’t recall what I said in response (I probably apologized or something, knowing me!), but I remember escaping to the bathroom as soon as I could break away. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw what she saw: a sad-looking girl with haphazardly-dyed red hair and entirely too much eyeliner. The scars on my arms suddenly looked alarmingly visible — they might as well have been outlined with highlighter to emphasize their presence. (As a sidenote, can you believe the jerkface owners of the restaurant wouldn’t let me wear a long sleeve shirt under my uniform t-shirt?! I tried and they said it wasn’t part of the uniform.)

I looked like I had given up on life.

I was a far cry from the little girl who posed outside this woman’s classroom in 1991:

(Although I do look a teensy bit sad there…I had probably missed a word on a spelling test or something; have I mentioned that I was the biggest stress-case crybaby on the planet as a child?)

To say that this incident shook me up would be an understatement. I wasn’t angry with her, although I probably should have been (I was 19 years old and doing the very best that I could; at least I had a freakin’ job! What a judgmental old bag!). I was just embarrassed and deeply ashamed. People had expected me to be “something,” and I had failed to deliver. I wondered who else had been harboring similar thoughts about me but just hadn’t had the effrontery to tell me. I felt like I owed the entire world an apology for not being…more.

Even now, nearly a decade later and with miles of emotional distance between myself and my past struggles, thinking about that conversation makes my heart skip a beat. I have come a long, long way, but there are still moments in which I mourn all the wasted time (I could have gone to medical school or penned a book or built a damn house!) or worry that I haven’t utilized my intellect or talents (I swear I have some; did you know that I am an above-average cake decorator?!) to their fullest potential. And if we’re being honest, those feelings are completely valid: I did waste a lot of time sitting around crying when I could have been doing something productive, and I don’t really do anything that requires any particular talent or skill.

But so what?

I have a wonderful life — better than I ever would have imagined possible. Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed with happiness and gratitude that my heart feels like it might burst under the strain of joy. I am not a doctor or a lawyer or a second-grade teacher, but I am happy and healthy I have a husband who thinks I’m funny and a son who smiles non-stop and gets really excited when airplanes fly overhead:

So I consider myself an unqualified success.

And I hope I see my former teacher again someday, so she can see what I see.

How to Build a Treadmill Without Killing Your Spouse

As you may remember, I spent the first few months of 2013 torturing myself training for a marathon until I slipped into a pothole like a clumsy idiot and busted my ankle. That literal misstep left me mired in self-pity for a few days as I assumed that all of those horrendous hours of running had been for naught, but as it turns out, being really stubborn and refusing to accept defeat has its advantages. I got over my self-pity, rested up, and guess what? My ankle is back in action and I’m soldiering forth with my training!

…with one important change: I bought a treadmill so that I can do most of my running on a nice, even, pothole-free surface. Not only will I not have to worry about tripping again, but I also get to avoid the sun and won’t have to torture the baby by making him sit in the jogging stroller while we do endless loops around the park. GENIUS, right?

Things were definitely looking up. We ordered a treadmill from Amazon, cleared a space for it in my office, and I got to work getting optimistic and excited about the marathon again. The treadmill was due to be delivered on Wednesday, so naturally I envisioned myself running on it Wednesday evening. I had missed 12 days of training while my ligaments glued themselves back together or whatever was going on down there, and I was ready to get back in the game.

Unfortunately, there was one thing I hadn’t realized: building a treadmill is not easy.

In fact, it’s quite maddening.

If you’re in the market for a treadmill — or any piece of bulky exercise equipment, really — I urge you to consult my guide before moving ahead with your plans. Your sanity, as well as any other humans or pets residing in your home, will thank you.

Maureen Wachter’s 10-Step Satisfaction Guaranteed Guide to Building a Treadmill:

Step 1: Tip the delivery driver extra so that he’ll heave the behemoth directly into the room in which you plan to use it. Feel really proud of yourself for thinking of this and pat yourself on the back for saving yourself so much trouble.

Step 2: Ask your husband to build the treadmill. Tell him you looked it up online and it sounds really easy.

Step 3: Become alarmed at the amount of packaging your husband is tossing out of the room. How many pieces are involved in this thing?!

Step 4: After one hour, check on your husband’s progress. Try not to express your surprise that very little progress appears to have been made. Tell him he’s doing great and you appreciate his hard work.

Step 5: After one more hour, offer to help your husband.

Step 6: Commence heated bickering over what the instructions mean and how the pieces are supposed to fit together. Insist that something must be amiss — surely it can’t be this difficult!

Step 7: Stare at the half-built treadmill, utterly baffled. WHY DON’T THE HOLES LINE UP? HOW ARE THESE PIECES SUPPOSED TO SCREW TOGETHER?! WHO THE F*?# DESIGNED THIS GODDAMN PIECE OF SH*%?!?!?!

Step 8: Deep breaths. Encourage your husband to take a break, as if you might be able to figure it out on your own.

Step 9: Post an ad on Craigslist seeking someone to build your treadmill.

Step 10: Hire the first person who replies to your ad and feel 100% vindicated when he has to bust out some crazy power tools to bore larger holes into the treadmill so that the pieces can finally screw together. IT WASN’T JUST US! WE WEREN’T DOING ANYTHING WRONG! THE HOLES REALLY DID NOT LINE UP!

Enjoy your run!

I’m a Maniac, MANIAC, on Prednisone!

My son, if you have not noticed, is very, very cute. He’s cute when he’s running around shirtless outside throwing lemons, he’s cute when he’s in his high chair covered in spaghetti, he’s cute when he’s wearing a shark hoodie…heck, he’s even pretty cute when he’s rocking an accidental mullet.

He’s NOT as cute, however, when he’s puffed up, as red as a tomato, and covered in hives:

Poor Bubba woke up Saturday morning with a bit of a rash on his face, but it didn’t seem to be anything serious — I thought he’d just spent a bit too much time outside the previous day (we are very, very pale people over here). By Sunday morning, it was obvious that this was no sunburn situation. Believe me when I say that the above photo doesn’t come close to doing the hives or redness justice (shockingly, an iPhone camera is NOT the best tool for capturing the details of an skin reaction), nor does it show the extent to which this Monster Rash had spread down his poor little back and tummy and arms. He was a mess.

Naturally, we headed right over to Urgent Care (despite his frightening appearance, he didn’t seem phased by it in the slightest — no breathing issues or even itchiness, luckily — so no need for the ER). The doc confirmed that it looked like an allergic reaction to something (duh — to what is the question), prescribed some Benadryl and some steroids, told us to follow up with the pediatrician in a few days, and sent us on our way.

The good news is that Prednisone (the steroid) is very effective! Just three days later, the puffiness has completely dissipated and the hives and redness are at least 80% better.

The bad news is that apparently one of the side effects of Prednisone is hyperactivity.

Have you ever seen a super-energetic puppy relentlessly chasing the other dogs at a dog park? Or a wind-up toy that just keeps going and going and going? Or a group of tween girls at a slumber party?

That’s pretty much what we’re dealing with over here.

On Monday night, he woke up at 12:30am and decided nighttime was over and ran around the house for an hour before he agreed to give that whole “sleeping” thing another shot. Yesterday afternoon, he spent ten straight minutes running from one side of the house to the other. Just back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, shrieking with excitement each time and making the occasional dive into my arms. When we went to the doctor for the follow-up appointment, he did laps around the tiny little examination room the whole time the doctor and I were talking (the cause of the allergic reaction, by the way, remains a mystery).

I tried to get a picture of him last night while he was running back and forth throwing balls all over the house, but he was moving too fast to really get a good one:

And now I’m tired.

Tonight is the last dose, at least! Let’s just hope the hives don’t return along with his sanity.