Hot Blooded, Check it and See

He's got a fever of 103.

George does, that is. Yesterday I got to experience two milestones--baby's first visit to a walk-in clinic and baby's first visit to an emergency room. Not a bad run considering he's five months old. My favourite part was when I called the nurse's hotline and described his symptoms (39.6 degree temp--that's 103.3 for you yanks, pulling on his ears, coughing, grunting, sleepy) and the nurse told me to take him to a doctor right away. Then, when I get to the clinic, Dr. Superior acts like I'm some overprotective loon wasting his time and sends me packing with an Advil sample and the kind words "there's nothing I can do to treat a fever that you can't do at home."

Two hours later, George's fever is even higher so we take the better-safe-than-sorry approach and stroll on over to the emergency room (luckily, we now live half a block from a hospital). The doctor there was much nicer and explained that George's immunity is down due to teething and he has contracted a flu bug of some sort. He said not to think twice about bringing him back if I feel I should or if his condition changes. Oh, and he actually examined him, which was a nice change of pace from the first doctor. I hate walk-in clinics. I also hate having a miserable baby dealing with teething and the flu at the same time.

A wolf in mom's clothing

George and I have been making a daily pilgrimage to Rocky Point Park. It's a big ol'water park and picnic area here in Pomo. The place is gagging with strollers, puppies, moms, and little ones. It's a really nice place, but I still feel like an impostor when I go there. I've got the ponytail, and the suburban mom uniform of fashion backward capris and T's, I've even got the kid in the stroller--but I still don't feel like "one of them."

Don't let the smile fool you...

this boy's got the Satan in him. Well, either Satan or just a stubborn tooth. I vote for Satan though.
We are two weeks into his first teething experience. So much slobber, so much screaming, so little sleeping. If we keep him dosed on teething tablets and baby Tylenol he's manageable, but the poor little bugger is having a hell of a time pushing out those pearly whites. It's hard to see him in pain, but more importantly, it sucks for me. I'm so tired. Keeping him distracted and comfortable is a full time gig that I'm not entirely qualified for. But every time I'm ready to throw in the towel he goes and smiles at me or falls asleep in my arms--manipulative little bastard.

God Bless Ketchup

Seriously. If there really was a God or a Jesus or whatever, I would accept him or her as my saviour and then use my new-found status as believer to convince him or her to bless the good people at Heinz. What kind of world would this be if ketchup had never been invented/discovered/conceived? Not the kind of world I want to live in. I am now going to go have a piece of low-fat cheese smothered in ketchup and dipped in salt.

TV Nation

I watch television.

You can tell me it is evil and the source of much dumbing down, but I don't care. I'm still going to watch it. And I won't put on a big show of claiming how little I watch of it when it comes up in conversation. I don't care if all the cool people trip over themselves in their declarations of who watches the least amount, or how long it has been since they last tuned in. And I won't claim to only watch IFC, documentaries, and The Daily Show. I do watch those things, but not exclusively. I'm tired of being shamed for my boob tubing. I'm going to revel in it instead. I don't care who knows it--I like to get right down in the trenches with such educational programming as The Price is Right, LOST, and Coronation Street. And I've been known to sit through hours of cake-baking challenges on the Food Network.

Okay, I draw the line when it comes to most reality tv. Even I would have trouble justifying those Bachelor shows or American Idol, but I do like Hell's Kitchen and I've wasted quite a bit of time on America's Next Top Model and Project Runway. I've accepted it. I have a tv. A big, flat screen tv. And I actually watch it. The rest of you can go back to whatever it is you do with your downtime--quantum physics, juggling, talking--I'll stick with the comforting drone and glow of the magic picture box.

Smells like teen spirit

It is hot here this week. Hot. Hot. Hah-aht. I took the offspring out for a stroll this morning, and was smart enough to pile on the sunscreen first. It was Hawaiian Tropic, and it smelled so yummy. That smell always takes me back to high school. Back when my family lived in Winnipeg and we had a pool in our back yard--one whiff of HT puts me right back there. These days I wear sunblock because I don't want to encourange wrinkles or cancer, but those days I wore sunblock to prevent any semblance of a tan from cramping my style. You can't be tanned and listen to Morrissey, you just can't.

The 35-year-old me was walking the streets of Port Moody with my 14-week-old son, wondering if the 17-year-old me could ever have imagined this turn of events. I think the 17-year-old me would approve of Simon and George, not so sure if she'd be over the moon with the additional 30 pounds I'm hauling around. But that's okay, I've got another magic-bean solution--the new wii Active. It's totally going to whip me into shape. I'll be so lean and mean, I'll be able to kick the 17-year-old me's ass.

Thirteen weeks in.

Crazy. Tomorrow George will be 13 weeks old. He is over three months, technically no longer a newborn. Too fast. This is all happening too fast. He's grabbing toys and standing (with support), before I know it he'll be getting caught shoplifting and be begging his dad to buy him a motorcycle. Or worse, my mat leave will be up and I'll be forced to go back to my job or find something part time closer to home. The days are just flying past me, I'm surprised to find myself missing the long sleepless nights of the first few weeks of mommyhood. If I were a few years younger I'd probably head back to the baby well. It's amazing how you forget about the pains and pangs of pregnancy, but I guess if you didn't no one would ever have any siblings.

Hopefully time will slow down long enough to allow me to get some packing done--we're moving on July 1st. Sweet Jesus I hate packing. But I'm psyched to get into the new place and start playing happy families. As long as we stay in BC I imagine we'll stay in the new pad. So, unless we find a way to live the Halifax dream, this could be the last time I get stuck with a tape gun and a crap load of cardboard boxes staring at me while I ignore them in favour of more important pursuits--like Facebooking, or making cookies.