So it’s official. Elijah has “Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease.” Not to be confused with “Hoof and Mouth Disease.” When Diana told me yesterday, I thought, “Do we own a cow or pig? And has Eli been fraternizing with them?”
It’s a common misperception among idiots that Hand Foot and Mouth Disease is the same thing as Hoof and Mouth Disease.
After a quick internet search (did you know everything on the internet is true?), I found that the symptoms are fever, which explains the 109 from Sunday night, and blisters and sores in the mouth. Ew. Luckily, as of yesterday morning, Eli didn’t have mouth sores.
Unluckily, as of yesterday afternoon, Eli’s mouth was chock full of sores.
I tried to call home to get updates a few times, but Diana was drowned out by the screams of Old Soreface. I felt awful. Diana had not only been up all night, for two straight nights, but now couldn’t leave the baby alone or do anything about his intense uncomfort.
And to add insult to sore-filled mouth, I worked until 11pm last night. I arrived home just before midnight to a note that read, “Save yourself! Sleep on the couch.” I shoved Grover over and fell into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of pigs with zits.
When I awoke this morning I found Eli sleeping soundly on top of Diana. Which meant that he’d been up again last night. I silently crept out of the house feeling intensely powerless. Which is the psychological equivalent of a mouth full of sores.
When I arrived at work I demanded a bunch of work be completed immediately that didn’t really need to be finished until later. I felt much better.
Di has been too busy with Stingy Gums to send me a new photo. So enjoy this picture of Patrick Brennan after he caught a foul ball at the White Sox game. It practically landed in my seat while I was off getting beers. Which is the sports equivalent of a mouth full of sores.
I got a million of them.
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