There is some sort of zombie stomach flu going around, and I seem to be the only person not getting it. I feel like Rick on The Walking Dead. I think that's the correct analogy; I've actually only seen part of one episode of that show. S and I started the series, and then about halfway through the first episode, we realized that it really was all about zombies, which neither of us has much interest in, so we turned it off. I, for one, don't know what I was expecting; it's not like they hide the fact that it's a zombie show. I did something similar with Game of Thrones. I watched a few episodes because everybody loves it, and then I started getting confused and annoyed by the story lines. I couldn't tell why there were undead albinos walking around in the snow, and why a woman was shooting a smoke monster from her vag, and why some people had magical powers and others didn't, and why everybody fought with medieval weaponry despite there being something called "firewater" from which it seemed one could fashion bombs and guns. And when I was explaining all this to a friend who loves the show, he said, "So ... your complaint about a fantasy show is that it contains fantasy?" Yes, exactly. And yes, I realized how silly that is. It's a bit like going to a baseball game and complaining because of "all the throwing" -- nobody would ever do that. Well, S might, but nobody else.
[Getting this song stuck in your head is more tortuous than really zombies -- if real zombies existed, of course.]
But the purpose of this entry isn't to talk about TV. Although, I would like to give that Alex Gansa a piece of my mind for the abject atrocity that was the Homeland season finale. I don't know what he was thinking. It's like he was intentionally trolling fans who were finally back on board this season after an unwatchable third season (I literally didn't watch the second half of it). It's like somebody at the pitch meeting said, "OK, should we tie things up with Haqqani, or should we end with a thrilling cliffhanger to set us up for next season?" And Gansa responded, "Neither. We're going to do an incredibly underwhelming season finale about Carrie's boring parents with a punchless, slightly confusing secondary story about internal CIA politics -- that'll show 'em." Well, I'll tell you one thing, if Homeland doesn't reel me back in immediately next season, I am absolutely going to stop streaming it for free off that shady, offshore free-TV site we use.
Anyway ...
So S got sick Christmas Eve and was bedridden almost the entire day, leaving me to take care of the little man on my own, so it wasn't exactly the world's most relaxing holiday. It was OK though. I got in some quality father-son bonding time (he's started doing yoga with me; he tries to imitate the poses, which is super cute), and then after I put him to bed, I had the night to myself. I would have rather spent it watching bad season finales with my wife, but, hey, free time is free time. Anytime you get a chance to spend an hour or two watching highlights of old football games that you've seen a hundred times already, you gotta do it, right?
In the morning, we were greeted by a pile of vomit on Lil' S's pillow: Merry Christmas! I would've preferred a stocking filled with sports magazines and candy like I used to get as a kid, but nope -- vomit. This wasn't little baby spittle either; this was full-on, stomach-emptying chunks. It was gross. He threw up again in the early afternoon, which was enough to get us to cancel our plans to our friends' house for dinner. The thing is, he was acting perfectly normally, just as energetic as always, but he was just throwing up, for some reason. I went over to our friends' house by myself for an hour to exchange gifts and have a Christmas cocktail and some h'ordeuvres. And then we opened gifts with my family over Skype, so there were a few Christmas-y activities, at least.
Actually, it would have been a fine day, except Lil' S couldn't stop throwing up in bed. He would fall asleep for an hour or so, and then puke and start crying, and we would have to get him. And not just get him, but we would have to clean him up and prepare the bed again for him to go back to sleep -- all while he's half asleep and bawling and fighting us at every turn ("I don't want you clean me!"). I spent half the night shuttling towels and blankets and clothing (and a few stuffed animals) to and from the laundry room trying to keep everything fresh and clean in his bedroom. The one thing you can't swap out, however, is the smell. Poopy diapers can be bad, but I think on the hobo power scale, the effluvium of stale vomit is worse.
The first time he threw up at night, it was a heart-wrenching moment. He was groaning in his room; not crying, he was making more of lowing sound. So I went in and asked him what was wrong, and he pointed down to the disgusting egestion in front of him and said, "this." There was just something about seeing him there, sitting in his own filth, not knowing what it was, or why it was coming out of him, that made my heart drop to the pit of my stomach. It was such a sad site.
But the good thing about kids is that they have short memories. (Remember being a kid and one minute you'd be so mad, swearing that you would never be happy again just to teach the world a lesson, and then somebody would mention popsicles, and you'd forget everything and run to the kitchen so that you could call dibs on the grape flavor?) This morning, he was up like normal. Eating toast in our bed for some reason, and asking, "Daddy, are you sleeping, Daddy? Are you sleeping?" I was, until he asked.
OK, that's all I have time for today. Until next time ...
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