The Enemy of My Enemy...

The evening ritual for Little Man is as follows.

1. We do a “breathey” (it is a long "e") or an aerosol Pulmicort/Foradil breathing treatment (this is just maintenance, if he is having some difficulty breathing we add Xopenex and Atravent*) using a nebuliser.

2. We wash his face from all the “breathey” goodness, and most likely ketchup leftover from dinner.

3. We go upstairs so he can find “paci” his pacifier for the rest of the evening rituals

4. We watch Noggin videos on ‘s Jack’s Big Music Show, while the bath fills up.

5. We give him a bath and scrub him clean… even behind his ears

6. Dry him off in his bedroom and give him his medicine (Zyrtec, and Mylanta: he needs the Zrytec and likes the Mylanta chaser)

7. Let him play for a bit (around 20 minutes) while They Might be Giants’ Bed Bed Bed plays.

8. Change the CD to something softer, read 1 to 3 short stories, and rock his butt to sleep.

(I thought about making it 12 steps, but that was too predictable)

It is around the end of Step 4 that causes him to rebel. He hates his bath. He hates it with a passion rarely seen by humans. He absolutely screams his little head off when we get him into the bath. He reacts to the water as if we are lowering him into a tub full of liquid magma and broken glass. (We always check the water to see if it is too hot or full of shards of broken glass {I know there are some mandated reporters who read this here blogarooney.}) He curls up in on himself as we lower him to the water. Sometimes his ankles are above his head by the time he gets near the water. I would, personally, rather put my legs in first, but (how apropos) he chooses to let other parts of him enter the water first.

He cries for about 5 minutes struggling to get out of the bath. He have to hold him in (not “under” for the mandated reporters out there) the water until he lets us scrub him squeaky clean whilst sobbing. It is enough to make one not want to have a clean child around. But you need a clean child for at least part of the 24 hour cycle. (After his morning oatmeal, he is usually not as clean) So we fianally get this tortuous bath finished and he wants to get out of the bath, because he hates it. Hates it like it burned his “blankey.” (Oddly enough, his “blankey” was given to us by my Brother and his current Sister-in-Law. Go figure.) He hates the bath with the fires of a thousand suns. That, my dear readers, is a “fuckload” of hate, but he doesn’t hate the bath as much as he hates going to bed (a “fuck-ton”). So he hunkers down in the tub and starts to half-heartedly play. As long as he is playing, he thinks we will not snatch him out of the bath for his final bed prep. He is always sorely mistaken, but he is persistent.

He is clearly making the logical leap that the “Enemy of my Enemy is my friend.”

To recap:
Man, that is a bunch of medicine
Wifey and I are tired of the routine; we are tired of having to give him so much medicine
Not-So-Good-Sleep last night
If those are all the steps to the ritual, why does Wifey always make me sacrifice a goat?
And who am I praying to?
I am getting a hair cut today
Cracker Stew for lunch and left-overs for dinner
I lead the life

*there is a really good chance that most, if not all, of the medicine names are not spelled correctly