I mean, *seriously:* jam behind your ear?
Yeah, that’s us, alright. Here at Casa del Beest, we take our drinkin’ seriously. It’s Sunday morning, and we’ve got two kinds of tea (one a chai-style thingie made from “scratch” — no, I didn’t go out and pick tasty looking twigs…) and some orange juice on tap. Friday evening, The Boy and I racked five gallons of brown ale into secondary fermentation. Pretty much anytime, any day, we’re up for a good cup of coffee. Perhaps the two biggest signs of how into our cups we are:
- The taste of the water can make it or break it (we prefer “wet” with no discernable gas, mineral, or other contaminents), and has occasionally resulted in raised voices
- The Boy has never met a cup/glass/bottle of something he didn’t like, especially if it comes in a combo like milk-root beer-ginger beer-coffee-milk-regular beer.
We made it! The Wife is officially at 36 weeks in her pregnancy today, so that means:
- It’s all good from here
- No more restricted activity (hubba hubba, and what not)
- Our house is about to get a *whole lot* cleaner
- Our lives are about to get a whole lot busier
It also means The Boy will officially be a big brother, and able to teach things he knows, like his new (and only) knock-knock joke (the punch line is “WaZOOka!” and is hysterical if you’re three. It’s not bad if you’re thirty-somethin’, too.), and the best way to wheedle Dad out of “somes root beer, pleeeese!”
We’ll keep you posted, with words and images.
We’re back from the hospital with The Boy. That’s a good thing. The Wife called me last night at about 18:30 while I was setting up a tape backup system for one of my outside-of-work clients. Said she was taking The Boy to the E.R. because he was having a hard time breathing.
Because I’m a brilliant conversationalist and extremly quick on the uptake, I said, “Really?”
She put The Boy on the phone. I don’t know if you’ve ever had your heart ripped out of your chest just by the sound of someone struggling to say “Hi Daddy,” but it was a new experience for me.
I raced home in the “Red Sporty Car” (The Boy’s designation, not mine), picked up The Wife and The Boy, then raced (a little more slowly; the roads were getting slick with a “wintery mix”) to the Accute Care Clinic at the hospital. At least, that’s where I think we raced. It’s a little hard to know for sure because they’ve recently remodeled the E.R. and everything kind of flows together. And, of course, we got there right when the docs were changing shifts, so we went from nice, polite, competent middle-aged doc to old, grumpy, curmudgeon doc. That was (as The Boy likes to say) “pretty sweet.”
The Boy got some steroids, some mist in an O2 mask, and some Tylenol to cut his fever. He got pictures of his chest and abdomen. After it’s highest point, his heart rate was 209 beats a minute, but that came down after a while. And then he started driving his car. And squirming like only a three-year-old can. When he started playing with the controls of the gurney and trying to get at the computer on the wall, we knew he was going to be fine.
The Boy still has a pretty good cough, and his breathing isn’t so whisper quiet, but he’s doing about 603% better today than he was last night.
Of course, now I’m home sick…