Poor little Evie

Evie has been doing battle with her teeth for some time now.  She's been a hot mess of whiney pathetic noise for the last week or two.  Well, it's all coming to a head this weekend with a full on fever, screaming, lethargy and downright miserableness.  It's tough to watch my petite one who usually has the  big, stupid smile, now arch her back in pain and scream.  Scream and sob.  Sob and scream.  And simply be miserable.  I walked out into the living room this afternoon to see her standing next to her daddy with her head rested on his shoulder.  I know it hurts, baby. I KNOW it hurts.  And as I run my fingers over her gums to feel the two new molars erupting, I chant to the teething gods for a little help.

And then call in the re-enforcements of the tylenol and motrin goddesses to have my back.  If I had the balls, I would slip her some of Layla's tylenol with codiene, cause this baby is hurting.  And so I hurt.  I don't like hurting, and I really don't like my kid hurting, so I want to do what I can to take the pain away.    Where's the brandy that was rubbed on the gums of my generation?  Bloody genius, I tell ya.  But somehow I doubt that the cooking sherry that my shelves hold would be as effective as the shit used on us as kids was.

Poor little Evie.  If I could take the pain away, I would.  You're breaking my heart.  You're killing your daddy.  I remember the pain that my wisdom teeth caused while coming in, and I'm certain that I know what it is that you're going through.  Please crash and give me the 12 hour stretch that you did last night, and tell your sister to do the same.

Never mind, it's Mike's day to get up with them.

Do whatchya gotta do, kid.