Eastermath

Fuss is improving, but improvement means he has more energy to fuel the irascibility of being ill. The last few nights have hearkened back to the 'good old days' of tearful wakeup calls every few hours, leading me to wonder anew how we survived.

Easter Day started well enough with the basket and prizes in the living room- I took some good footage of the sick boy exploring his haul. By the time I got home from work it had degenerated to Fuss in a sullen bundle on the couch watching Fireman Sam and the wife emerging from the bedroom, red eyed and dishevelled in her dressing gown, lacking only an open bottle of gin in one hand to complete the Dickensian visual metaphor.

We rallied for a chilly twilight egg hunt in the garden which took a few minutes to get rolling- Fuss wandered the garden paths slowly in his giant parka, seemingly oblivious to the multifarious brightly colored plastic eggs "hidden" among the plants, muttering quietly to himself.

"This is the most depressing egg hunt EVER!" exclaimed the Wife.

But he eventually got with the program, although I ended up having to 'fly' him around the yard and invert him over the target so he could 'pick' them. He had a good time shaking the plastic eggs to see if they had any candy inside, carefully opening them the ones that 'shaked' to inspect their payloads.

Putting him to bed was more challenging than usual.
One thing folk don't understand about Fuss is his instinctive, vigorous resistance to pretty much everything a parent needs to do in the course of a day.

Want to change a diaper?
Be prepared for a prolonged screaming fit and wrestling match.

Want to dress him?
Ditto.

Bath time?
Getting him in the tub is like trying to wash a cat, getting him out is even worse.

Bed time?
Haw.

Not that any child is easy, but it seems that most others have some areas where they're relatively happy to get with the program. With Fuss anything (and I do mean anything) that isn't absolutely, positively 100% his own homegrown personal idea is greeted with bared claws and exposed fangs.

Always, every time.

How many diapers have I changed in the last two-odd years? I can count the number that didn't trigger a brutal campaign of trench warfare on one hand with fingers to spare.

Oh well, I wouldn't want any other child so I suppose I wouldn't want him any other way.
But the whole thing is well and truly PLAYED.