We suspect Freebird has a “beer reflection,” because he’s nonstop irritable and whiny, and keeps pulling at his ear. The doctor saw fluid but not inflammation, so perhaps it got worse, perhaps its bothering him, perhaps Satan has taken my happy little dude and replaced him with the Devil’s Toddler. Ask Rbelle. I was on the phone with her, and she got to witness over the cellular airwaves the meltdown of the day, all because I wanted to put the Bird in his highchair and feed him. Evil Mommy! I hope this crap temporary because while I loved cuddling in the “big bed” with Freebird last night as he wound down for bed, I miss my mellow, happy dude.

And yes, we really call it a “beer reflection.” We refuse to say the actual words aloud. Even last night after many many up-and-down soothing episodes between 2 and 4 am where the Bird would sleep for 15 minutes then wake up screaming and crying, we discussed the likelihood that the problem is “beer-related.” If our house were bugged by some larger federal entity with bugging capabilities, they’d think we were plying our child with Pabst.

Maybe Pabst would help?

Either way, after an early-morning soothe-a-thon to the screaming, miserable toddler man and a happy dosing of Motrin for the pain, the Bird calmed down - but then had a little party in his crib. Singing, talking, reading books, then eventually sleep. It goes without saying that we are a bit sleep-deprived. Hubby and I were talking about our lack of sleep before I left this morning, and I said, “Hey, just as soon as he starts sleeping again, we’ll have a newborn! It’s like a baby bootcamp preview!”

Somehow this did not help much.

That said, I’m still having a marvelous day. 

The Bird is well enough to go to school, though he was super cranky this morning and clearly wanted a few extra hours of sleep. Me too, Bird, me too. But alas, I shall have to content myself with a slowly growing realization that Father’s Day is Sunday and I better get on that. Here’s a glimpse of how tired I am: I’d rather click and shop from my desk chair than get up and go to the card store. How sad is that? But if you’re like me, consider the following gift ideas.

For the Baseball Fan: Now Batting, Number...: The Mystique, Superstition, and Lore of Baseball’s Uniform Numbers. A book all about why players chose certain numbers and the reasons and superstitions behind uniform numbers on certain teams. Seems to me that it would be great toilet reading.

For Democrats Obsessed with Politics: The Assault on Reason by Al Gore. Positioning himself to be that guy Democrats wish would run for office already, Gore moves from global warming and the environment to how our decision-making process has been assaulted by soundbites and song and dance routines.

For the Husband or Father who is really about 12 years old inside: The Trail Blaster Sandbox a Zen sand garden for boys: “You can create your own tabletop 4 x 4 truck courses while sitting in your office. Take a minute out of your stressful day to relax as you jump cars, race through the course and rake the sand.” Cool! And on sale for $19.99.

For the man who loses his cell phone: An armchair for the phone, suitable for desk usage. Many a person I know has one. Very handy. You can also get a bean bag chair, for the more casual cell-phone-losing-man.

For the man who fixes stuff: Magnetic wrist band to hold screws, nuts, bolts, etc. Hubby was putting together a chair on a porch last weekend, and could have used this instead of fearing that the screws or the Allen wrench were going to fall down into the slats of the porch floor.

For the grill master: The pig tail meat flipper for the grill. Rack of ribs? Big ass steak? No problem!

For just about any dude: A personal gumball machine. Fill it with M&Ms, candy, whatever. Yum!

After a weekend of feverish ornery toddler, I’m exhausted. I didn’t sleep well after a lot of anxious worrying over bullcrap that kept me from sleeping, plus it’s harder to get comfortable as I am larger in the front bit by bit every day. Plus, full on distraction & care of the Bird when he’s tantrum-y and feverish is not fun, for him or for me. He wants to feel better, and he doesn’t, so he is PISSED OFF.

But I am not at home, and Hubby is, even though it is my turn. I totally feel guilty about that, as our “take turns” system is a good one and I totally owe Hubby the next two sick days with Bird.

Between you and me and the internet, I probably should be at home. I’m so brain-dead I might have to start pounding my forehead on a hard surface to wake my brain up. Coffee is not getting the job done over here and I might need intravenous intervention. Is there a caffeine drip in the area? Because I totally need one. Stat.

However, when I left this morning, Freebird and Hubby were cuddled in bed together, which was both alarming and adorable. Adorable because Freebird was resting his head on Hubby’s shoulder, all curled up under the covers, watching the Weather Channel, which, after The Wiggles, is his favorite show. Alarming because it was a sign that clearly the little man still felt poorly, because I have never seen him sit still that long. Ever. Unless he was sleeping. But clearly Freebird wanted to be home with his Daddy, and that will make him a happy little man, as much as possible. 

In case you ever wondered why people yell “FREEBIRD!” at concerts.

My weekend is over, but unfortunately it was not so much of an “end.” Freebird has had a fever off and on since Thursday, and is no better - which means one more missed day of work for Hubby and a trip to the doctor for the Bird. We’re both exhausted from bad nights of sleep, and generally trying to wrangle a cranky, tired toddler. He hasn’t wanted to eat or drink much - I think he’s eaten about 10 cheerios today total plus some mac & cheese for dinner - and he’s just miserable. And I can’t get irritated because I know he must feel like absolute shite. Poor kid.

But when he feels better we’ll feel better, so off to the doctor he goes. 

The pastor entered his donkey in a race and it won. The pastor was so pleased that he entered it in the race again, and it won again.

The local paper read: PASTOR’S ASS OUT IN FRONT

The Bishop was so upset with this kind of publicity that he ordered the pastor not to enter the donkey in another race.

The next day, the local paper headline read: BISHOP SCRATCHES PASTOR’S ASS.

This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the pastor to get rid of the donkey. The pastor decided to give it to a nun in a nearby convent.

The local paper, hearing of the news, posted the following headline the next day: NUN HAS BEST ASS IN TOWN.

The bishop fainted. He informed the nun that she would have to get rid of the donkey, so she sold it to a farmer for $10.

The next day the paper read: NUN PEDDLES ASS FOR $10

This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the nun to buy back the donkey and lead it to the plains where it could run wild.

The next day the headlines read: NUN ANNOUNCES HER ASS IS WILD AND FREE

The bishop was buried the next day.

The moral of the story is:

Stop worrying about everyone else’s ass and you’ll be a lot happier and live longer!

I got one - ONE - Friday referral. Perhaps this is an omen for a weekend in which I don’t feel like I have six million things to do and five minutes in which to get them done? Not likely, but I can dream.

People still search for the lolrus bukkit, and even the lolrus can’t find it.

Freebird has a buckle, but I don’t think he’s willing to share.