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Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Prince Caspian and the Adventure of the Rotisserie Chicken

ONE OF THE GUESTS.
Posting late may be the new normal round here.  We had a pretty good long Memorial Day weekend, and hope you did as well.  Ours decided to go careening right off the tracks yesterday afternoon.  We had a few friends over to help us battle the mountain of ribs I had piled on the smoker.  It was a noble effort, and everyone fought valiantly, but they whipped us.  Wasn't even close.

By the time the feed was over, I already felt pretty disgusting.  I was covered in smoke, sweat, grime, bug spray, and a three-day beard.  Jack was also winding down and pretty grumpy so I threw him up in his room to read a little (i.e. carefully setting him up for a nap).  After cleaning up, I strolled up there and read some Prince Caspian to him.  I could barely stay awake myself.  At some point I fell asleep during a song, best I can remember.

We both crashed, right there together, for almost two hours.  Not sure who looked like he had the worse of it, but there was some trouble generally in waking up and rejoining mankind.

Swimming was proposed, and seconded.  But Jack didn't much look in the mood or really the condition to swim.  We flipped on a DVD and watched some Sword in the Stone.  I was right there with him for a bit, but left to go get a snack.

Looking back, the little sputtering, yakking noise as I returned wasn't too much of a surprise.

I caught most of the sick before it hit the rug, a feat I'm still pretty darn proud of.

He got medicine for the fevah! STAT, and he was seated next to the well-known here's-a-bucket-if-you-need-it for the rest of the DVD.

Tylenol, curses be upon it, makes The Dude more hyper than middle schoolers on Red Bull.  So between the nap, and the Tylenol-Devil, there was pretty much no sleep till Brooklyn.  Brooklyn in this case being 2:05 am, when I dragged myself up there to administer some Motrin or whatever.

I've said it before, it's the unexpected stuff that I enjoy most about parenting.  In his room, I see this:  He had abandoned the big beach towel nest (with bucket) I constructed for him in favor of the other, cooler side of the bed.  His lamp is on right over him, and he's facedown in the pillow, probably suffocating.  Under the bright light, his skin radiating heat, he gives the impression of a big rotisserie chicken in pajamas.  He's clutching a kitchen timer and a little torch missile thingy from some knight or other's rocket launcher/siege engine.

I flip him over (not easy) and sit him up (really not easy), put the medicine up to his lips and he loudly drawls, 'I WANNA DO IT MYSELF."  He slumps forward and falls back to sleep, I guess ignoring my laughter.  I haul him up and try again, and he says, "AGAIN," and collapses.  Lights out.

Next morning, he greets me with, "PRINCE CASPIAN HAS ON LONG SOCKS AND A TUNIC!"

Now, if you were to look that up in a medical journal, it will say, "Diagnosis:  Patient physically sound, but mental state undetermined."  We've taken steps to quarantine him from The Other One.  We'll see.

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