Time to get ill

Jacob started throwing up Sunday morning, and it went into Monday. Zoe threatened to throw up all day Monday, but went back and forth between, "MOMMY MY BELLY HUUUUUUUUUUURTS!!!" to, "Mommy, can I have a lollipop?"

She never did get the lollipop, and she never did throw up.

But she woke up shortly after falling asleep tonight with a barking cough that is unmistakable croup. I couldn't believe it -- she is 6 years old and should be out of the magical age of getting it -- so I called my sister and as soon as she heard that cough over the phone she knew it too.

After getting over my initial reaction to go down to the garage, start my car and lock myself in the trunk, I laid on the living room floor and let Zoe writhe and moan and bark. There's nothing like a kid pulling out the German ancestry when she's sick.

She finally fell asleep, but I have a feeling this night is long from being over.


On Saturday, I cut Jacob's hair. I have agonized about this for weeks, because I know it is one of his firsts, and I've been split on involving Joe or just waiting for him to do it. Or going for it.

Much of my decision was based on a lot of input. Joe wouldn't do the same for me. It's just a haircut, Joe won't care. Jacob is constantly scratching his ears because of the wisps of hair tickling them. It's practically in his eyes!

It didn't help that Joe took the baby to the doctor on Friday, never told me about the visit, the diagnosis, the prognosis, nothing. I had to hear it from the day care: Another diaper rash.

It's just a haircut, I told myself. He needs it. Joe will pick him up from day care Monday, get mad, get even, and it will be over.

Then Jacob got sick, I took Monday off, and I had to hand him over to Joe at the bottom of the driveway in the evening. It was then Joe set eyes on the amazingly great job I did with a squirming baby and a jar of baby squash.

But he didn't exactly see it that way. After swearing and cursing at me -- in front of both of my children -- he marched his way back to his car, claiming he had a police escort he was going to report to. (I looked up the street, and there was no such police escort.)

But it didn't stop there. He went home and stewed about it -- A FUCKING HAIRCUT -- and delivered to my inbox one of his best insults ever:

Only an insignificant, filthy piece of human flotsam would do what you did to that baby's head of beautiful hair.

I'm ashamed I called you a "fucking cunt." Not because it's inaccurate, but because it's too banal a description for the hideous and hateful creature you are.