a new kind of horror movie

Welcome to the House of Ooze. Swee'pea and I are sick with a MISERABLE cold, and Sugar D announced this morning that it's coming his way too. Poor little Swee'pea has been oozing for five days now, and yesterday he woke up with puffy purple half-moons under his eyes that don't look like they're going anywhere soon. Each night seems to involve less sleep and more crying. Last night, I think, was the worst night EVER in the history of Swee'pea (and I'm including all the newborn nights there too). I think he cried for hours, off and on, in half-hour bouts. Then he'd quiet for a bit and we'd think we were in the clear, and he'd be off again, screaming and weeping about something that we had no knowledge of and no ability to soothe. He just sobbed and rolled around between us and thrashed and kicked, all the while his nasty slime spreading across his face and transferring to everything his face came into contact with, mostly my shirt and the sheets (I am doing a lot of laundry).

All night, I kept thinking this is the WORST NIGHT EVER. Sometimes I wondered if I was going to lose my mind, not being able to do anything for Swee'pea and just having to listen to him scream and sob. Has anyone gone crazy being forced to listen to a baby cry without any power to stop it? It could be a psychology experiment. I think I've reached a position of learned helplessness where I just freeze uselessly at the first sound of Swee'pea's screams. This morning when we got up, Sugar D's first sentence was, "I think that was the WORST NIGHT EVER." So it's unanimous.

For five days, Swee'pea has been doing a fair impression of some kind of slimy monster just emerged from the swamp. We try to wipe the twin slime trails that ooze from his nose, but it makes him scream and fight and weep, and I know his poor nose must be raw and irritated. Sometimes it crusts into dark green boulders that block his nostrils, and then Sugar D goes all Hemingway with varying degrees of success. Sometimes we try to soak them out in the tub, but even that isn't 100 percent reliable. Yesterday, after finally snagging a dangly, taunting critter after an hours-long standoff, Sugar D declared victory, "I AM the Booger Hunter!"

All this has made me look forward to Swee'pea discovering that he can pick his own nose. Who knew that it is, in fact, an important life skill? Since I succumbed to the ooze, I have been trying to show Swee'pea that I have to wipe my own nose, that trumpeting like an elephant sometimes helps too, but he's not getting it.

It's really quite revolting the amount of green slime that's coming out of him. This morning, while he nibbled at breakfast, Sugar D was making all kinds of disgusted noises, "He's oozing!" But when I looked, there was just a light crust from all the overnight tears under his nose. Then suddenly the twin heads of some nasty sea creature slime checked out the situation outside, then promptly withdrew back into their homes. Shy, I guess.

I once had a pet clam when I was a kid, and I kept it in an orange tupperware container. Sometimes it would stick out its white slimy foot, and I would feel good, that I was giving it a good home, that it was comfortable putting its neck out like that. If I touched it, it would suck itself back inside the shell in a second. The appearance of Swee'pea's sea creature does not arouse quite the same feelings; in fact, I think it's the opposite.

Also in the last two nights, the slime has apparently begun sliding down poor Swee'pea's throat resulting in disgusting liquidy coughs and gags. It's so gross to hear it must be really bad to experience it. Poor kid. Poor parents.

Can we get an Invasion of the Boogie Snatches please?