The Four Molars of The Apocalypse.

by Alexa on June 8, 2009

Oh, what a day. Simone screamed—oh, sorry, that doesn’t quite do it justice—SCREEEEEEEEEAMED! for hours, and hours, and, improbably enough, more hours still. Cried and screamed and cried and screamed until she started coughing and couldn’t stop.
Last night she was up five times, with the screaming, and then after a brief respite this morning she started up again, and every time I tried to put her down for a nap she woke 20 minutes later, her head spinning upon her shoulders while an unholy wailing emanated from her milk-hole. Finally I broke down and called the pediatrician. We got an appointment for four p.m.

I was certain it was an ear infection, because of how Simone kept scrabbling behind her ears, and I watched the clock as our appointment time crept, slothlike, closer, and with it the sweet, sweet relief of ear drops. I tried giving the banshee some Motrin, but got only redoubled woe in return. Then she BIT me, and I had to set her down and take deep, cleansing breaths. Let me just say that parents of colicky babies, babies who scream like this for days and weeks and months on end, have my utmost admiration and respect. I salute you, brave mothers and fathers of the world! It’s a miracle you haven’t flung your children from the highest nearby precipice, but probably you don’t have the energy anyhow.

We left for the doctor’s office early, because I AM PRETTY SURE THERE WAS SOMETHING WRONG WITH OUR CLOCK, and then, as soon as we were ensconced in an exam room…
Simone was fine. Happy! Waving her sock at the light socket and babbling importantly, the little bastard.

As it happens, she does not have an ear infection. She does, however, have FOUR molars mumping along under her gums, struggling to breathe free, one in each quadrant of her mouth. And I have a red, angry, blood-filled bite mark on my upper arm that hurts whenever I flex (happily, I have very little use for my muscles, so this is infrequent).

My daughter and I are off to bed with Motrin and a martini, and I’m not telling who gets which.

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