WHAAAAAAAT?

"Merritt, it's the constant noise that's the real problem ... in case you were wondering what the real problem is."

Erin just broke it down for The Dude. 

Our attempts at reasoning with him are ineffective, and not because he's eleven months old. For four days he's maintained an average temperature of 102˚(for all you interested mathematicians, that's a range of 98 - 106). And made constant noise to indicate his dissatisfaction with his fever, and more likely, the fact that the sun rises in the east.

Seriously, the noise is never-ending.

Whole. New. Realm. Dealing with a sick baby. We haven't slept in four days.  We have worried for four days, but we haven't slept. We've wondered why people have babies because this worrying business? Insane. Also, have I mentioned the lack of sleeping? We haven't. Slept, that is. We've reached a level of delirium only previously achieved at pre-teen slumber parties.  In the three o'clock hour. After "Light As A Feather, Stiff As A Board," but before (so flipping scary) "Bloody Mary" in front the bathroom mirror (followed by the cool triboluminescence trick that occurs when one crunches a Wintogreen Lifesaver between her molars in front of the bathroom mirror so she's not as scared about the "Bloody Mary" business. Shut-up. I scare easily. And I like science at my sleep-overs.).

That parenthetical above? Solid proof of delirium.

Merritt is in the tub right now.  I'm on the throne beside him, laptop on ... lap.  I know jack about decibel levels, but he's churning out at least forty billion at this very moment.  I just yelled to Erin that I intend to kill myself and then her with a grand plan of leaving the boy in the tub to contemplate his own question: if I scream in the tub and no one is around to hear me, is it because they genocided themselves?  Yes, Merritt.  The answer is yes.

Erin is now yelling/pleading/desperate from the living room, "What have we done to you, Merritt?"

Dear Merritt,
If you could speak in something other than Fran-Drescher-Moaning-On-Her-Death-Bed, you might remind us that today, in an effort to make you sleep, we put you in your carseat and drove for the duration of Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill. And we sang. Loudly.  Because sixteen years ago when that album came out, we didn't know anything about anger or pain, and now, if nothing else, we can sure as hell sing like we do.
Sorry.
Love, 
Momma

Here's what we know: Dude hates nebulizer treatments. Dude hates eating. Dude mostly indifferent to the gallons of snot that cascade out of his face. Dude hates that the sun rises in the east.


We hate that Dude is sick.