Flashback Weekend

Fuss is two, the anniversary marked by a fun party Saturday afternoon.
After last year's anarchic bacchanal we took a more low key approach, trimming the guest list and turning catering over to our culinary genius pal Marcus, who grew up in a family restaurant in Switzerland with a dress code featuring Lederhosen and Swiss Guard uniforms. Asparagus frittata, salmon and goat cheese bruscetta plus a lovely pile of olive oil drenched crostini flanked by bowls of savory spredable delights. I kept my hand in by grilling a mountain of hot dogs for the toddler army.

My camera's battery went dead so the only documentation is video. The inverse of last year, when the video camera's battery went dead and I barely had enough juice to get the cake presentation.

Fuss was in good spirits, still not really clued in to the concept of premeditated celebration but happy to see all his favorite people in one place.

He's been sick with a cough for a week or so and last night provided a window on how far we've come from the bad old days. The human brain being how it is, we've both mostly already forgotten what it was like for the first year and change when it it took an act of God to make him sleep more than an hour at a stretch.

The cough gets worse at night, and he occasionally hacks so hard he pukes. So last night was punctuated by several coughing, howling, vomiting interludes of the sort where you end up fully awake with the light on, a distraught little man thrashing and screeching on your shoulder, wondering what the fuck you're supposed to do now.

The Wife sought refuge on the couch, but Fuss is wise to the trick and fetched her back a little before 5. I gave up on sleep and sat reading with him for a while while she dozed, before another coughing/puking bout woke her up and necessitated a hazmat cleansing of the area.

After, I parked him on the couch where he requested "baby panda!", an episode of Curious George set in a zoo and his current favorite. I put on the kettle for coffee and as I was filling up the dishwasher remembered that in the not so distant past this awful night was the rule rather than the exception. Well, except for the vomit.

And if some representative of the Sandman Guild had offered it to me in trade for any average night during Fuss' first six months, I'd have snatched the offer from their gloved hand before they came to their senses then howled over my coup in semi-hysterical triumph.