My doctor looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and said, “You know, no study has been able to conclusively link teething with fevers, ear aches, diarrhea, or runny noses.” He has a pretty dry, wicked sense of humor, and he waited for the look of disbelief to settle on my face as I held my snotty, squalling baby in my lap. “But we parents know better,” he said with a grin.
That was back when Jamie was a baby, at one of his normal checkups where he screamed the whole time. Freddie is the latest (and last – hooray!) to ride the teething train, and let me tell you: paired with a sick older brother and a super-active even-older brother during tax season, it’s been awful. The pits. Holy hell, we are tired. That kid won’t let me do anything without him in my arms – either he screams on the floor, crawling toward me as if he has been abandoned and my makeup gets done or I apply mascara while trying to hold his grubby hands away from the wand.
One of the more surprising things to me as a parent is that, even though they are my own children, I still don’t know what to do. I often don’t know what is wrong with them when they are ailing and I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know the best way to discipline them or potty-train them or get them to try a new food at the dinner table or to brush their DAMN TEETH ALREADY, IT’S TIME TO GO! When Freddie’s dirty diapers started resembling world’s stinky-est bean dip regurgitated by a diseased raccoon, I was a little worried. When he wouldn’t sleep at night, I thought, “Maybe he’s getting sick like Jamie. Oh, Lord, please spare us from this virus.” When he screamed and screamed and screamed as I put him in the car the other day, I wearily rubbed my eyes and finally got a good look at his wee mouth. Ah-ha! Mystery solved. Apply painkillers, liberally.
I actually got Freddie to laugh a bit this morning, which means that these two front teeth are almost through his gums. Maybe we’ll get a reprieve before the next set!
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