As if the past week wasn't enough to make me drink hard liquor and binge on chocolate, Punk is teething.
Profusely.
Cutting 5 teeth--three molars.
She's not happy.
Which means:
1. No one sleeps
2. Ear plugs are mandatory
3. The boys have begun researching live chicken sacrifices to appease our wee little demi goddess
4. Punks head is an axis and is free spinning and blowing chunks
5. I know, in baby talk, she called me a very dirty word
6. The Man is threatening to move out, because if teething is this bad, he admits he won't survive puberty
I'm not a novice when it comes to teething. We've done gels, tablets, rings, pops, leather straps to bite on. Nothing works. And my baby is a baby banshee--my windows rattle and ears bleed.
I'm sure my neighbors think we're abusing the child, and, if this doesn't stop soon . . . Never mind.
The boys popped teeth with little thought. It was go to sleep, wake up, get chomped on by a new pearly white.
Punk declares them all with the tried and true heart of a Drama Queen, making sure we all know that she is maligned and mistreated by the Universe as a whole.
She weeps copious amounts of tears, sobbing until he hiccups and sniffles, then peering at us from tear dampened eyelashes to remind us that she is the baby girl and shouldn't we be doing something?
I caught The Man throwing money and promising a car yesterday.
I don't know what to do.
She's miserable.
The males in my house are cowering.
And I'm being deprived of even more sleep, which means the men are trapped between Princess Piss Pot and Big Mad Mama.
Sucks to be them.
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