So we had our first public incident with Brett the other day. I'd picked him up at daycare and then brought him to the Downtown Mall to have lunch with Amanda (after which, we'd parade him around her office and then head for home. Earlier in the day, the daycare center told her that he was running a little bit of a fever and they'd given him Tylenol, so him coming home and hanging with me would be good for him anyway.
While at Eppie's (it was chicken w/dumplings Friday--holla!), we sat in the back room and fed Brett some baby food. A few minutes after he was done, he coughed a little, gagged on some loose phlegm and decided to reenact The Exorcist on my right shoe. The two of us sprang into action like the crew at the Magic Kingdom cleaning up horse shit. Amanda sprinted for the ladies' room to get paper towels while I wiped down what I could. When she got back, I took him to the men's room and changed him (on the Skip-Hop, on the floor, which was not comfortable and he let me know it) into a change of clothes that had been "permanently" in his diaper bag (read: a romper that was a wee bit small). I think cleanup took a few minutes and we were out the door soon after.
Now I don't mean to pump up my ego TOO much here, but I am pretty impressed at the efficiency with which we handled this. I've been in too many places where child of parent does something that (purposely or inadvertently) causes a scene and spends more time saying "Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!" instead of just fixing things. I'm sure that the other two people sitting in the room noticed he'd projectile vomited but nobody said a word or gave us a look (well, I'm not sure about that other thing ... I was too focused on cleaning up the puke). And I really don't want to be one of those "My child's mishap/temper tantrum/bodily function should be the center of YOUR attention as it is MINE" parents. My parents never were--in fact, they were the parents who talked ABOUT those parents while those parents were in earshot, thus risking a confrontation.
It turns out that Brett's fever was getting worse and it spiked to 103.6 on Friday night. We kept on with the various fever reducers plus plenty of fluids and saw the doctor Saturday morning. There's nothing he could do but say that a) he's probably picked up a bug from daycare and b) there's no secondary infection, so we just have to let things run their course. That was reassuring but it did result in him missing a morning nap so when we went downtown for lunch with my mom, Aunt Ingrid, and cousin Ingrid and her daughter Kristen, Brett was a bit tired. But still charmed with his
Shermy face because there were so many people around. Other highlights included me placing my BBQ meat loaf sandwich within his reach and him lunging for the bun. We got him some bread to gum and he looked quite content.
Actually, he was pretty chill as we walked around the various stores and didn't seem to mind when we came across the second of two people who obviously spend 99% of their time with their heads shoved firmly up their own asses. While Amanda and I were waiting for my cousin outside Alakazaam, a toy store and showing Brett all the cool stuff in the window, some three-packs-a-day, rawhide-skinned woman and her brood comes screaming up to the window, practically knocks us over and starts loudly pointing something out. I can't remember what the hell she was pointing at or exactly what she was saying because we high-tailed it to Caspari (next to which there was a guy playing bagpipes of all instruments ... like, really. Do people throw cash in your case to keep you from playing or to stop you?) but I know she was saying the same phrase over and over. You know what I mean--something like, "Jazmyne would love that. Jasmine would love that. Jazzzmiyne would love that" with increasing volume each time. Oh, and there was a woman (her daughter?) with a teeny tiny baby on her shoulder that was loosely swaddled and screaming her head off, like, "Bitch, it's 90 degrees out! I'm hot! I need air conditioning and a nap! And why does Grandma always smell like Winstons and Beam?"
The first head-ass victim we encountered on the drive downtown. We were on Route 29 and I was driving in the right-hand lane when the woman in the minivan ahead of us stopped because a mail truck had pulled over to place letters in a mailbox. Now, on any residential street, this would be no problem but 29 isn't residential, save for the few dozen bumpkins whose houses were built around the same time as Monticello. Presently, Route 29 just north of Charlottesville is a four-lane divided highway (LIers, picture Sunrise Highway as you go out toward Shirley, NoVA people, picture 7 as you leave Tysons and head toward Sterling). The mail truck, which obviously is driven by someone who does this route every day, pulled OFF the road with enough room for this IDIOT to slow down and calmly pass. But no. She STOPPED. IN THE MIDDLE OF A FUCKING HIGHWAY. I didn't have room to change lanes so I had to stop behind her and laid on my horn while both of us screamed for her to "GO! GO! GO!"
Her reaction? To throw her hazard lights on.
I know it was a move of sheer panic, but still ... WHO THE FUCK STOPS IN THE MIDDLE OF A FUCKING HIGHWAY YOU FUCKING MOTARD?! Thankfully, we were not rear-ended and wound up the first in a line of five or six cars that were blaring their horns at this stupid, stupid, FUCKING STUPID woman. I'm sure ours were not the only fingers raised in salute when she was passed after finally finding the fucking gas pedal (surprisingly? No Jesus fish or Bush-Cheney sticker on the minivan).
Oh, and Amanda tells me that at Harris Teeter today, she found herself perpetually stuck behind some dude with two kids pushing one of those huge shopping carts that is meant to look like a fire truck or racecar or something. Is there a technical term for those people who you seem to always be stuck behind no matter what aisle you are in at the supermarket?
Friggin' people. But Brett's feeling better. And making serious inroads at standing on his own!