Edited to add: Ok, so maybe I overreact sometimes, especially when it comes to choreographed dancing… but it’s still great, yeah? You can’t argue with that.

So. Apparently I’m the last person in the world to see this, judging by the ten million views in the last week. Better late than never, right? Right. I followed a link following a link, and the next thing I knew I was dropping big stupid happy-tears on my keyboard. There may have been a sob or two. Don’t judge.

I hit play, and Mark said, “What is that?” Then he looked at me and said, “Ooooh. You must be watching that wedding thing.” It was The Ugly Cry that gave me away. Something about choreographed dancing gets me EVERY TIME. Add in a side of wedding bliss, and I’m a goner. Happiness makes me happy, moves me to tears. And dancing is happy. Shut up.

I’d embed the video, but embedding is disabled on YouTube. So you have to go watch it there. Then come back and tell me you had The Ugly Cry too. Or at least a tear…

These last two days haven’t been great.  I’m supposed to be at BlogHer RIGHT NOW, meeting and partying and networking and learning and swag-collecting and dining and partying (see: sidebar) but instead, I’m home. On the couch. With no patience and a sore back.

Asher has Hand, Foot and Mouth disease, which is not the same as Hoof and Mouth disease thankyouverymuch, but sucks the big one nonetheless. A week and a half ago he started a sleep-marathon, waking for maybe 6 hours in a 48 hour stretch. I thought, “Oh, how cute! A growth spurt! Now I can read magazines and eat popsicles catch up on work!” When he woke up, he was kickin’ it with a high fever for a few days, and then a rash on his back. We went to the doctor, where I paid a nice man $30 to wait in his office and exam room for an hour and a half to be told that it was what I thought it was: Roseola. Totally common, not painful, every baby gets it by the time they’re two yadda yadda. The end. Right? Wrong.

Tuesday night was a tiny piece of Hell, one where babies wake every hour to scream and be generally pissy. Wednesday morning when he woke up, his lips were swollen and wonky, and by noon there were blisters on his tongue. Instead of driving an hour to pediatrician A (see: above) I tied Asher on and walked out our back door to see pediatrician B. We didn’t have an appointment, but I figured they’d be way less likely to say they couldn’t squeeze us in if I was standing right in  front of them. It worked. 30 minutes later we had a diagnosis. And a, “Good luck!” since there’s no treatment for a viral infection. So now we wait it out.

Last night turned out to be a slightly larger piece of hell, featuring less sleep and more screams and tears. Mine and his. Today, the blisters are gone, but have been replaced with a refusal to sleep, or eat anything I put in front of his mouth, including my boob. He won’t take a sippy cup, so all day (ALL SLEEPLESS DAY) I’ve been pushing pedialyte and pediasure in a bottle. It’s kind of working, enough so that he’s at least peeing more now. He’ll eat lots of junk (sweet potato puffs, yogurt puffs and cheese puffs), but I can’t get him to take anything out of my hand or off of a spoon. I don’t know what gives. It seems like more of a political statement than anything, because I know his mouth is feeling better. He wants to be held, no, he wants to be put down, no, WHY AM I ON THE FLOOR PICKMEUP! Poor baby just wasn’t happy today. And I kind of wanted to lock him in a closet.

I’m physically and emotionally drained, and it’s only been a couple days like this. I feel like a total amateur, drama queen, bad mother, all-around jerk. Sometimes I just don’t think I have enough patience and empathy for this job. Because man, it’s hard. It’s not like anybody told me it was easy, but still. I don’t know.

He went to sleep at the regular time tonight, and has woken to nurse once, so I think, I hope, that we’re coming out of this. I’m cautiously optimistic. And if things are better in the morning, we might actually make it into Chicago.

And now, simply because it makes me snort every time I see it (or think about it, honestly) and I need some laughs tonight, I give you this:

When my sister-in-law was pregnant with my niece, her first daughter after three sons, I had a talk with my nephew Ben. Bear with me, because this was almost two years ago, but totally memorable. While I may ad lib a tad,  I swear I didn’t make it up.

It was kind of like this.

S: Hey Ben, it’s so exciting that you’re going to be a big brother, don’t you think?

B: Yeah. I guess.

S: You’re going to have this little baby sister, and she’s going to be like a princess that you’ll always be able to protect, like you’re her knight.

B: …

S: Well, I was a little girl with a big brother, and I can tell you that’s it’s pretty cool.

B: You have a big brother?

S: Mmm hmm!

B: Wait, I know who it is! It’s Uncle Mark! You guys are ALWAYS together!

S: …

Sarah: 0, Ben: 1

.:.:.:.:.:.

I love that kid, he has such a pure heart. When Asher was tiny, Ben would sing to him whenever he cried. And that vocabulary… He’s the only child I have ever seen speak French before his second birthday.

I think he likes me pretty well, too. Although it wasn’t always mutual. He loves his Uncle Mark, to whom I was clearly a distraction. Once when I came to visit, Ben said, “Uncle Mark, your FRIEND SARAH is here.” When Mark and I got engaged, Ben’s mom said to him, “Ben, when Uncle Mark and Sarah get married, do you know what we’ll call Sarah then? She’ll become Aunt Sarah.” And Ben said with disgust, “GROSS. I don’t even LIKE ants.”

.:.:.:.:.:.

Mark and I were married three years ago today. It’s been almost perfect, always worth it. We’re living and learning together, adulthood and parenthood, figuring it out as we go. I wouldn’t trade a second of it.

He is all my reasons.

Yes, I realize I just posted this picture a couple weeks ago. Shut up. Also, check out that viking beard. RRROW.

If I could open my arms
And span the length of the isle of Manhattan,
I’d bring it to where you are
Making a lake of the East River and Hudson
If I could open my mouth
Wide enough for a marching band to march out
They would make your name sing
And bend through alleys and bounce off all the buildings.

.: Death Cab for Cutie: Marching Bands of Manhattan