drool spots

As if we didn’t endure quite enough psychological trauma during our first visit, the three of us decided to get a second dosage from Ben’s pediatrician yesterday. Actually, The Ben went to see a new pediatrician, as his original doc was woefully inept [that might be overstated just a wee bit but hey, she’s not reading this, right?] This time he suffered three injections, two different dudes manhandling his junk, and one crazy-retarded insurance company gumming up the works. It’s times like these when I get down on my knees and pray to the Children’s Tylenol gods.

All that aside, the doctor said our son is perfectly healthy, a little heavy [in a good way, unlike his pop], tall and strong. And handsome. And ready to start on solids [God help the diaper changers – oh wait, that includes me!]

Our little boy has been quite the fussy-pants lately, and the general consensus is that he is entering a phase known as “teething”. Well, I don’t exactly know what they mean by “teething”, but I would call it irritable-drooly-lip-sucking-irritable-chewy-drooly-irritible-fussing. And he’s been irritable too.

But he sleeps well and I have to admit that is a very, very nice present for his parent’s five-year wedding anniversary coming up tomorrow. He’ll be spending his first night without either of us within 20 feet of him, and he’ll be doing it at Grandma and Grandpa Bonick’s house on Saturday as mom and dad check into motel-love [and attempt to stay awake past dinner]. It will be our first night to sleep like we used to do on Saturday mornings before he was born which, I admit shamefully, lasted sometimes into the late afternoon [or evening. . . or night].

We’ll miss you, Ben, but we won’t miss the “teething”.