I received a telephone call yesterday afternoon from Rosemary's daycare saying that she had a fever of 102 degrees and I better get my butt in there to pick her up.
I promptly drive over to get her (teething, so a fever is normal) and bring her to my studio to give her some of that repulsive red sticky poison that she rejects immediately and which finds itself on whatever clean white clothing is within arm's reach. What's that called? Oh, Tylenol.
I was informed that she would not be able to return until she is fever-free for 24 hours; which would be Friday, most likely. So we decide to take the morning off on Thursday and do some random stuff together.
We load up a really nice walker that I had purchased at Target in May. She has clearly moved beyond it developmentally (who knew she'd be walking independently at 10 months anyway) and which she's used maybe four times - all of which prompted a total meltdown at being set into a device that she could neither chase the dog in nor bust up furniture with because our bungalow house is quite small and navigation is tricky for a toddler (and for an adult with a third glass of wine who's misplaced her eyeglasses, I hear).
Paid 40 bucks for it and just sold it to a child's resale shop for 7.
I dazily cruise around the store with my shopping cart while Rosemary is babbling about something incoherent (did she just say, 'iced tea'?) and scratching my head in disbelief that I was just paid less than $10 for a brand new piece of child equipment (damn you), I pick up this book and buy it (thus giving even more money to this stupid store that just ripped me off). I start to read the opening pages at the multitude of red lights on our way home (no apologies to the snot in the red Jeep who was behind me this morning at SR 26 and 52 and honking like an insane person, by the way).
If I get a minute of free time, I'd like to read it in it's entirety in the next couple of days as the secret of a happy child is something I just gotta know; because I've been foolishly acting like it was chocolate ice cream before dinner and, gosh, do I feel dumb.
I promptly drive over to get her (teething, so a fever is normal) and bring her to my studio to give her some of that repulsive red sticky poison that she rejects immediately and which finds itself on whatever clean white clothing is within arm's reach. What's that called? Oh, Tylenol.
I was informed that she would not be able to return until she is fever-free for 24 hours; which would be Friday, most likely. So we decide to take the morning off on Thursday and do some random stuff together.
We load up a really nice walker that I had purchased at Target in May. She has clearly moved beyond it developmentally (who knew she'd be walking independently at 10 months anyway) and which she's used maybe four times - all of which prompted a total meltdown at being set into a device that she could neither chase the dog in nor bust up furniture with because our bungalow house is quite small and navigation is tricky for a toddler (and for an adult with a third glass of wine who's misplaced her eyeglasses, I hear).
Paid 40 bucks for it and just sold it to a child's resale shop for 7.
I dazily cruise around the store with my shopping cart while Rosemary is babbling about something incoherent (did she just say, 'iced tea'?) and scratching my head in disbelief that I was just paid less than $10 for a brand new piece of child equipment (damn you), I pick up this book and buy it (thus giving even more money to this stupid store that just ripped me off). I start to read the opening pages at the multitude of red lights on our way home (no apologies to the snot in the red Jeep who was behind me this morning at SR 26 and 52 and honking like an insane person, by the way).
If I get a minute of free time, I'd like to read it in it's entirety in the next couple of days as the secret of a happy child is something I just gotta know; because I've been foolishly acting like it was chocolate ice cream before dinner and, gosh, do I feel dumb.
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