I'm still sick. Really sick. I have an appointment with a doctor today, actually. Oliver still has his runny nose and a little cough, but I'm the only one left still in the thick of things. It is no fun. Jared has been so busy this week after coming off of vacation that I've been left to deal with Oliver by myself. It's been a rough week for all involved.
I don't sleep well at night with all the coughing and not breathing going on, so during the day I'm very tired. Oliver's standard of care has been.... low. Low is putting it nicely. But he doesn't seem to mind.
Instead of feeding him his yogurt for breakfast, I hand him the open container and a spoon and say good luck. (His spoon skills are epic now.) I haven't dressed him all week. (But I did bathe him for hours, if only to steal the humidity from the hot water.) He's watched so much TV that his brain should be replaced by now with muppet fur. (He can watch the same Sesame show on repeat and it's still just as exciting.)
Instead of playing with him, I've been trying to think up new "toys" to occupy him. He stacked cans of tuna and tomato sauce from the pantry. When the groceries were delivered (yes, I was too lazy to go to the store) I gave him a paper bag to carry the cans around in. A little junk notebook provides hours of fun, assuming you enjoy ripping the pages out one by one and crumpling them into a ball to throw in the recycling.
The thing is, though... He doesn't seem to mind one bit. If being sick this long has taught me anything, it's that I really don't need to do much for Oliver to be happy and more or less taken care of. I can be even lazier than before!
Sure, there were some pitfalls in my parenting this week. I went to the bathroom and came back to find Oliver sitting on top of the table, eating a stick of butter with a fork. I got engrossed in a book and looked up to see small boy running around naked. Just as I asked, "Do you need to go potty?" he peed on the carpet.
I couldn't keep my eyes open while we were watching Sesame Street. Oliver was sitting on my lap with his eyes glued on Elmo, and the eerie level of quiet in the house lulled me to sleep. Just as I was closing my eyes I had this fleeting thought of.. "Maybe I shouldn't sleep while he is awake..." but by then it was too late, anyway. A sitar player could've shown up in my living room, and I wouldn't have woken up.
I'm not sure how long I slept, but when I opened my eyes it was still mysteriously quiet. I could see his wake of destruction, but in my sleepy haze it didn't really sink in. Kleenexes were pulled out of the box and thrown in a huge pile on the carpet. Random cords and plugs and tips of toys were plugged into my computer. Every single toy in his box was taken out and scattered around the apartment. A box of crackers, tipped on its side, was empty.
I almost rolled over and went back to sleep, but then I remembered. Oh, yeah. There is a baby in here somewhere.
I followed the cracker crumbs and ripped up paper bits to the table, where I found said baby. He was sitting on top of the table, pen in hand, scribbling on my credit card statement. And all I could think to say was,
"Good job of colouring in the lines."
And instead of telling him to, say, get off the table or something like I normally would, I made a hot cup of tea and sat down next to him.
"Here, you forgot to colour in this box explaining APR and penalties for late payment."
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