The Stank.

Still haven't found what I'm looking for

     We all do stupid things. The trick is in trying not to repeat stupid mistakes. See, the one common denominator between all people is that we all do stupid things. The fine line that separates "normies" from "dummies" is how often stupid things are repeated. The good news, for anyone on the line between dummy and normy, is there can be extenuating circumstances. For instance, I'm use to taking showers in the morning. That's just when showers are taken. Lately, I'm finding a once normal behavior (showering in the morning) to be a stupid behavior. I take a shower in the morning and the next thing I know I've got some combination of spit-up, throw up (yes there is a difference between spit-up and throw up), poop, urine, bag balm, and "other". Why would I shower for that? It's like getting cleaned up to go mud wrestling. Regardless, I continue to shower in the morning, even though I know I'm going to be covered in a thin film of gross baby byproduct within a matter of minutes. On the other hand, if I shower at night, that just means I'm clean the few hours I sleep, then wake up and get dirty again. Maybe I should skip out on showering all together. Nah, that'd be stupid.

     Another stupid thing I do, and I just can't seem to shake, is something I like to call "Hideapoophobia" (pronounced hide-a-poo-fobia). There are times when I'm cleaning up after what can only be described as a poo version of Chernobyl that I get this sinking suspicion there is poo on me somewhere. Usually I have a feeling it's somewhere on my arm, like that spot around your elbow you can't actually see. I try to wipe myself off with one of those baby wipes, just to see if there's something there, but I haven't found anything, not even once. Yet I can't seem to get over my hideapoophobia. This would make me stupid. I guess children really can give you "the brain damage". I'm sure this is just the beginning of what will be a long list of stupid things I'll do as a parent. Just hope they're not too severe.

The Skootface.

IT'S SKOOTFACE!!!!

     I've seen it a hundred times! Little Billy or Suzy is learning to crawl and those giant thighs are much stronger than their underdeveloped T-Rex arms. Frustration ensues. As a parent, we all want to give our children that extra little boost, leg up, or (if you've had a baby T-Rex) arm extensions. I present to you SkootFace. No longer will your child's forehead be red and raw from scooting their heads across the carpet as their arms drift helplessly along the ground. No more will your child's toy continue to be out of reach! Think of never again having to lie to your friends how advanced your child's development is! With the SkootFace your child will be crawling as early as four months old. For only 19.99 you can start your child on an adventure of your house! Think: Miner's helmet with a wheel instead of a light.
     And the best part is, if you don't want them getting around, just take it off! They'll be like fish out of water. If your child is beginning to pick up speed, we have an optional head-bumper for only 5 dollars more! Five Dollars! Think of it! You can protect the Jell-O like consistency of your child's brain for only five dollars, now what parents wouldn't do that for their baby? Admittedly, your child's brain is losing neurons faster than than they can make them because of apoptosis, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't protect the ones that survive! So, go ahead and click on that "Donation" button at the top! I hope you don't expect to get anything, because this doesn't even exist, but still, it'll be fun! And you don't even have to sign up for an account, just give them all your credit card info. It's safer than it sounds... I hope you've been enjoying the blog. But seriously, SkootFace doesn't exist, and if you thought it did and still wanted to buy it for your child, seek help. Keep it funny!

The Cruelty.

Num num num num num....

     Evy is finally getting out of her colic, rolling over, laughing, giggling, all the things a beautiful baby girl should do. It's wonderful. She's happy and agreeable and that makes my job a heck of a lot easier and more fulfilling. The last few weeks have been just like that, and the memory of her colic is being covered up, bit-by-bit, by new memories of enjoyment and smiles. But then the cruelty of life starts to kick in.
     I'm a fan of cruel humor. If you think you're not, you're wrong. Every person I know laughs at the crotch kicks in America's Funniest Home Video's. You do too, don't deny it. It's funny to see someone else get hurt, mainly because it's not us. I think George Gobel said, "it's funny to see a old woman in a wheelchair, rolling down hill, out of control. But it's only funny in America if there's a brick wall at the bottom of the hill." In that same vain of humor, God thought it would just be hilarious if, just a few short weeks after her colic went away, Evy would start teething. Admittedly, she doesn't cry nearly as much, but still, I thought we had done our time in the crying ward. Guess not.
     So, any teething advice? We've tried the frozen things, and they're okay, but they don't stay frozen forever and Evy drools so much they actually thaw out pretty quick. I'm all for the Orajel/Anbesol route, but I'd like to use as few chemicals as possible. I know they make baby versions, but still, I feel weird doing it. Some of my friends have used "homeopathic" teething pills, but I also want something that works. Now, I'm not saying all homeopathic remedies are a crock, but at three o'clock in the morning, I want instant sleep; ergo, I want instant fix. That's probably my problem for being so impatient, but still, is it so wrong to want to sleep? Is it?!?! I don't think so. I'm open to suggestions. What have you tried that worked? What have you tried that failed worse than the Pinto making a comeback?

The Eating.

Before Magneto had a budget...

     Evaline had her first meal today. She hated it. And, I gotta say, she did pretty awful. But it was funny, so that made up for her complete failure as an eater. It's okay though, we still love her. Also, I think I've figured out why her head, like all babies heads, are so big: counterweight. Seriously. She's starting to figure out how to roll over, from stomach to back and the other way! Oh it's true, she's a a full on expert at rolling over. Just as long as she can keep pivoting on that giant head of hers. But she seems to like it, so I'll let it go.
     But back to something that might be remotely useful to the rest of the world. Turns out, it's a good idea to baby-proof your house a little earlier than necessary. Evy succeeded in peeing across her changing table, over to the wall, and right on the electric socket. There's no charred baby, which means it could've gone worse,but still, those little wall socket cover things might not be a bad idea. Catie and I weren't expecting her to do that...she's a girl! Apparently, that doesn't matter and Evy successfully peed straight through the glass ceiling. Well, here's a short video of Evy trying rice cereal. It's supposed to help her sleep longer, but I think there's a prerequisite for it to work: she needs to actually get some of it in her stomach... Oh well, maybe next time.

The Activities.

Ahhh...pink crinkle paper, my favorite. 

     It's kind of difficult to know what to do with a four month old. I mean, I know what to do with her, like feed her, change her, hold her, etc., but right now, her absolute favorite thing in the world is a piece of cloth with cellophane in it. That's right, crinkle paper. It blows her mind. Some of my friends take their six month old to the zoo, the wild animal park, they might even take him to Kidchella at the New Children's Museum. It's pretty cool and all, but my daughter has an attention span of about twenty seconds. After that, all things stimulating just get filed away in the "OH MY GOSH I CAN'T TAKE ANYMORE!" category. Evy would probably be as equally interested in my foot as she would be in feeding a giraffe.
     On top of all that, I have a feeling the frustration factor would be pretty high at anyone of these places. I'm kinda (read very) cheap, so when I spend a bunch of money on something, the we're-gonna-have-a-good-time-or-else expectation goes up in proportion to how much money has been spent. But Evy's a baby. She doesn't care or even know about my expectations. She's probably gonna miss a nap, which will make her fussy, which would normally be fine with me, but now it's "costing" me money because we paid for fun but not getting any. We'll be the family walking by and some wiseacre will throw out that "ooo, there goes a happy camper!" comment, I'll get in a fight, and then we'll be kicked out of the park/movie theater/zoo/church. Which is no good, because (with the exception of the church) we paid good money to spend the most time possible having as much fun as possible. All this to say, when I see an ad about Kidchella, or my friends are taking their kid to the zoo, I think of that crinkle paper, and smile. Evy has no idea what she's missing, but she loves that crinkle paper.

The Attention.

     Things are starting to pile up. I haven't written a post, shopped for food, done dishes, or bathed in several days. Baby girl isn't even here yet. What's going to happen when she does come? I'll be running on less sleep than ever before, with more things to do, and less time to do them in. Right now I'm trying to find a job that will allow me to work from home, but that's not shaping up too nicely. Data entry jobs are few and far between, medical transcription gigs take 6 to 12 months to train for if I go to a reputable place, and by then I probably won't even need to work at home.
     EDIT: I realized I never finished or even published this post. I came across it when I was getting ready to write a new post, and it sparked something in me. I was right. Never before have I wanted so much to not be right. I am still tired, running behind, and completely overwhelmed. If it wasn't for Catie supporting me (monetarily and emotionally, and spiritually for that matter), I'm not sure how I could do this. I have more respect for single parents than ever before. The thing is, this has me thinking about a second child. The dog is already running on about a quarter of attention he usually gets. However, if we had a second kid the dog would just about fall off the radar entirely and attention spent on Evy would necessarily be divided. Regardless, people have done this for thousands and thousands of years. So, why do I feel like I'm the first person in the world to have kids? On the other hand, I am the first person in the world to have this kid.

The Passion.

We're not fighting, we're talking passionately...

     First of all, let me apologize for taking such a huge hiatus. Admittedly, it's only been a little over a month and I'm new to this whole parenting thing, but I use to post every day, so it's my own fault for setting up your expectations. Once again, allow me to apologize to all both of my readers. Second of all, I'm working on a book. Haven't shopped it around at all, but I'm trying to make time for it between school and diapers. I've already got the title: Breast Milk in my Coffee and other stories from a stay at home dad. I'm open to suggestions. Thirdly, Evy has helped create and maintain a new level of passion in Catie and I's relationship. Really, she has. Now, it's not necessarily in the way I thought it would happen and it's certainly not the same type of passion I'm use to, but it's there.
     See, somewhere during our maiden voyage into parenting, "talking" about how we're going to parent Evy stopped being an academic discussion on methods and turned into something else. For example, one day Evy was having another one of her marathon crying spells. When the screaming started Catie and I were just trying to make sure Evy was okay. Is she fed, is she hot, cold, sick, gassy, tired, wet, poop-filled, hurt? What?! What's wrong with her? After we'd checked off everything we could think of, we were left with empty brains and an enigma: What do you want?!?!
     Twenty minutes into the wailing marathon, we had about as many nerves as functioning brain cells. I'm throwing out suggestions, trying to calm down a child and empower my wife, but as near as I can tell she's politely ignoring my ideas and doing whatever she wants. Our "discussion" heats up quickly as the decibels rise in an attempt to make ourselves heard over Evy. At the end of this, Evy eventually fell asleep, but there were two adults, wide awake, very mad. Not at Evy, but at each other. The therapist in me had to figure out what just happened.
     After mulling it over, and a few more fights, I started figuring something out. Catie and I weren't getting passionate (read: fighting) about what to do for Evy, we were trying to establish who the better parent was. Turns out, Catie and I were no longer talking about parenting tactics. It had subtly become about who was the better parent. To not agree with my parenting tactics didn't mean there might be a better or different way of doing things, it meant I was a bad parent. That's not something I can handle very easily. That's already my greatest fear and anything that might confirm that is just too much to handle. So if I suggest sitting her up and burping her, and you lay her down and burp her, it means you're a better parent than me. Well, it doesn't mean that, but that's how I internalized it. Once I figured it out, arguing about parenting could just be arguing about parenting. Nothing more. I'm getting better at it, but it's still frustrating when you've tried everything you can and she's still crying. But that's life, isn't it.
    P.S. Don't call me Mr. Mom. Ever. That's like calling Catie Mrs. Dad because she works. I'm not a substitute mother, I'm a father. I'm not second string, I'm the other parent. We're equal, okay? Glad to get that off my chest...

The Lifting.

     There's a scene in a Family Guy episode where Clinton's motorcade breaks down in front of Peter's house. Still excited about his new workout regimen, Peter tells the secret service he can lift the car all by himself. He says "the trick is to shift all the weight from your legs through to your back and groin, then lift with a twisting jerking motion. You wanna take your legs completely out of the equation". He proceeds to do just that and absolutely wrecks his back.
     Fellas, I have a feeling there's going to be a lot of heavy lifting involved in my wife's pregnancy; and not just by her. Oh no, on the contrary. The more pregnant she gets the less she's able to carry. Don't get me wrong, I understand. Her center of balance is off, she's already carrying a quadrillion pounds of baby, her ankles are the size of pony kegs. I get it, I really do. But this early in the pregnancy?
     My wife is a machine. She would give any terminator a run for its money. While coaching cross-country at the high school where she teaches is hardcore, the fact that the school is in the middle of a desert takes it up a notch. At the time of this post she's just a couple of weeks into her second trimester and she's still sporting a six-pack. There are claims her "skinny jeans"* no longer fit, but skinny jeans won't fit her after we spent four dollars at Taco Bell (which, admittedly, is a considerable amount of food).
     I'm a nice guy. I'm a giver. So I pitch in because I love her and I want to show it. Then, while hoisting laundry from the car I already packed to the second car she now wants it in, it hits me: this is a test! It's gotta be! My wife, the model for independent women of the 21st century, asking me to help carry laundry? I don't think so! She wants to know if I'm going to be able to pull my (literal) weight when the baby gets here.
     Apparently, there is a massive amount of pure and unadulterated stuff that goes into moving a baby from point "A" to point "B". I've heard some names the "stuff" has, but I can't pretend to remember them all. What I do know is, the world will stop if any one of those things gets left behind. So who's going to be loading up all this "stuff"? Well, yours truly! And you know what? I'm totally up for it. Can't wait. Bring it on!
     I'm gonna kick the stuffing out of moving baby stuff. I'm gonna make a Velcro suit and just stick everything that kid owns to my body. I'll be a walking baby daycare, one man band, DDR machine. Maybe.
     Then again, maybe she just wants me to move stuff for her because all I'm doing is watching tv.
It's probably that last one.

*"Skinny Jeans" define the type of pant, not the person in them. This is a critical distinction to make when dealing with a woman who, for whatever reason, can no longer fit in them. It's not that she's "not" skinny, it's just the jeans are too skinny. Trust me, gentlemen, this will save you lots of pain. Lots. Of. Pain.

The Frazzle.

     You remember Fraggle Rock? That was a great show. Well, now I live in Frazzle Rock. It's not nearly as good a show. When Evy sleeps I try to get school work done, or maybe clean up around the house, but not much happens because I'm too tired to work. So I try to lay down and catch some zzz's, when Evy wakes up, right on cue. It's getting a little brutal and the bags under my eyes are so heavy I can feel them. So, I'm writing this post because I realize I'm behind and I hope I'll be able to write one that's a little more impacting in the next few days. But for now, I'm off to sleep!

The Communication.

     Have you ever been walking down the street, and you see someone on the other side of a window, waving at you? You're not sure if you know them, and they're pretty far off, so you look around to see if there's anyone else around. Nope. No one. They must be waving at you! So, you start to wave back. But as you do, your feet have been carrying you closer and closer to your mystery waver. Now, you can clearly see them, and they can clearly see you. And you can clearly see a confused person on the other piece of glass...the glass. They're not waving, they're washing the window! You don't know them, you never did, and you look like a weirdo flailing your arm at some stranger as they clean. Okay, take that feeling, and experience it every few hours and you pretty much have my experience as a stay at home dad.
     Evy's cries are starting to mean specific things, but many times it's hit or miss. It's like I think she's waiving at me, but she's really just washing the proverbial window. But, I'm getting a little better at recognizing what she's doing on the other side of that window. Eventually, she'll learn how to talk, and I may not have to guess... as much. I'll tell ya though, one thing I have learned how to read pretty well, is when poop shoots right out of her diaper and up her back. Know how I know? Because I can usually feel it on my hands as it soaks through her onesie. Ya. That one I've got down solid.

The Apparent.

     It's apparent that I'm slowly becoming a parent. I'm starting to realize that having a child only proves two fertile people got together. Creating a new life doesn't make me a parent any more than a bad toupee makes someone not bald. Membership into the parent club happens in tiny increments, one diaper at a time. Each time I pick her up when she cries, give her a bath, make a bottle at three A.M, I'm taking one step closer to being a parent. At least I think so. It's not like driving, I don't know if I'm half way, or even when I get there. What's weird about parenting is if I do it right, I'll work myself out of a job. I will always be Evy's dad, even after I die; but I won't always be her parent. And I guess that's the point, isn't it? I spend the first year of her life just trying to keep her alive. The rest of my life is spent trying to keep her safe and myself sane. There's parts of this job that really tax my patience and even my relationship with Catie; but I wouldn't trade it for anything.

The Science.

     Click on this link and check out "The Science of Babies". Totally helped me to appreciate Evy on a whole new level.

The Consensus.

     So, one of the easiest ways to decide if you're crazy or not is to see if other people experience reality the same way you do, there's a good chance you're not completely bonkers. As long as everyone else experiences the squares between the squares in the illusion on the left, even though they're not there, it's okay. Now, if you see Jesus in the picture on the left, you may have a problem. Seek help.
     This is a very important thing to remember when you have a kid. If she cries a lot, all the time, and there's nothing you can do about it, you can often feel like a terrible parent. It's an easy assumption to make. She's crying, there's something wrong with her, I can't help her, so I must be a bad parent. But, when a seasoned professional, like grandparents for instance, can't do anything to help either, it's a good thing; in a way. It means it's not just me. If there's a consensus about Evy, that means it's not just me. But it doesn't mean there's nothing we can do. We're taking her to the doctor to have everything checked out, and hopefully we'll be able to give her something that will help. But, if not, we're just going to ride this out until she's over it, and we'll go from there. I just have to keep telling myself it won't last forever... It won't last forever...

The Running II.

     Day three of staying home with Evy. Day one and two, no problem! She was fussless, she was without fuss. I was a great father! This thing was going to be easy. While I didn't say it, I was confident I had this parenting thing down. Apparently, it takes three days for me to eat my unspoken words. Today, right now, as I'm writing this post, Evy is in the other room, swaddled, fed, clean, coming off a full night's rest (like six full hours!), in her swing, listening to the magic CD that's supposed to make her happier than a pig in poop, and yet she will not...stop...crying! It's driving me nuts! I pick her up, she cries. I put her down, she cries. I bounce her, rock her, shake her (in the good way, not the abusive way), give her a pacifier, give her a bottle, and nothing. Well, nothing but tears and screaming.
     You may be wondering, if my daughter is in the other room crying, why am I in here, blogging? That's a good question and I'm glad you asked. The purpose of blogging at this particular moment is three fold:

1. It's important for me to be honest with what's going on inside my head and my heart, while this is happening.
   
2. I'm killing time until my father gets here so I can go running.
   
3. If I'm in here, I can't be in there, getting frustrated.
   

I'm not sure how much longer I can take this. I'm doing the right thing by calling my dad and waiting on him to give me a break. Don't get me wrong, I would never hurt my child. I'm not worried about that, it's just that I have no idea what to do to make her happy. And I think I may be close to realizing what "impotent rage" really means. My frustration factor is pretty stinking high right now...but there's nothing I can do about it. Nothing more than what I've already tried. Plus, it's not like she started crying and I just said to myself, "Self, let's see how long she can keep this up...it'll be fun!" I really have tried everything, but she's been crying for two straight hours and that's enough to challenge Mother Theresa. My dad's here now, so I'm going to go running. Thank God for grandparents...

The Disconnect.

 ⁼

     I'm not a computer genius. I think I'm better than most, but there are a lot of people out there better than me, and I'm better than all the people that currently live in my house. This means that when something electronic does goes haywire, it immediately gets passed to me. A friend who's in the same electronic situation I am laughs about this with me. What our wives don't seem to understand is that we don't know right away what's wrong either! We do some poking around, do some research online, take a best guess, try to see if anyone else has had a similar problem, and just keep trying until we find a solution. But the wives, they don't want to know this. I think they truly want to believe I have some magical power over all things computerized. I've talked about this in a little more detail in a previous post. Well, apparently I am to computers as Catie is to Evy.
     There are times when Evy cries, I have no idea what the problem is. She's clean, she's fed, she's the right temperature, but nothing seems to make her happy. At a certain point, I just hand her off to Catie. Nine times out of ten, Evy stops crying, goes all limp and slack-jawed, and then her eyes close. It's like magic! I ask Catie about this, and she says, "Oh, she just wanted to be bounced..." Bounced? That's what she wanted? How in the world did you divine "she just wanted to be bounced" out of that particular cry? It makes no sense to me. Catie and I sit down and start talking about this, because I can't pass Evy off to Catie every time she cries. Partially because it wouldn't be fair, but also because I'm going to stay home with Evy while Catie's at work. So, Catie asks me how I fix problems with computers.
     I tell her there's nothing really to it, I just poke around and see what I can do on my own. If that doesn't work, I look for other people online that may have had similar problems, and try what worked for them. She starts laughing and says, "that's exactly what I do with Evy!" When I think about it, she's right. When Evy was colicky, we tried a bunch of things on our own, none of them worked, so we went out and did some research. We bought a book, tried several new things, and found something that worked. When she cries now, I feel way more empowered. I sort of look at her like a computer, and just try stuff until the disks stop making that noise. And I guess when it comes to parenting I'm a lot like I am with computers: I'm better than a lot of people, but there's a lot of people better than me. Which gives me a little bit of hope. It lets me know I can help a few people out there with their children, and it tells me there's a lot of people out there who can help me. I'm not alone, and neither are you.

The Wow.

     Everyone knows who this guy is. He's the guy that beats up prostitutes. What you may not know is that he sells kitchen kitch, like the SlapChop, and, more important to our conversation, the ShamWow. Vince says, you'll say wow every time you use it. Last night, I could have used something that absorbent. So here's the thing, if someone figures out how to make a swaddler out of a ShamWow, I'll buy it. Evy started a spitting up marathon style last night. She just wouldn't stop. She didn't seem to be distressed or anything, just unable to keep the milk down. Could've been the amount of food she ate, could've been the garlic bread we ate at nine last night, who can say? Regardless, we owe a pretty large wet spot in our sheets and a half full washer to her esophageal exploits last night. She's fine, but I totally want a ShamWow burp cloth and/or swaddler. It would make me say wow every time she spit up! I think parents need that; a reason to say wow when their kid spits up...

The Automobile.

     A couple of years ago, we got what we thought was a good deal on a car. It was/is a Pontiac G5. While it has been immortalized in a terrible song by Jesse McCartney, the Pontiac has still been canceled and the whole idea was a total mistake. Regardless, a two door sports coupe is a great investment that only increases after you have a child. Have you ever tried to put a car seat in a two door? Houdini couldn't have done that. Well, he probably could have done it, but not in less than a minute, and that's saying something for Houdini. Anyway, I hate the car, but that's not what this is really about. I do hate the car, but it's not the point.
     When we bought this POS, we had no intention of having a baby. it wasn't even in the plan. By the time we were going to have a baby the car would be paid off and we could drive it off a cliff if we wanted. Well at least there has been one lesson learned, you never know what the future holds, so don't do anything just for today. Like, right now, we're remodeling our new house. All the things we're buying, we are thinking about the future. Ceiling fans? Buy one for the future, not just for today. It's times like this when a little bit of extra money spent up front will pay off later. I think it even applies to the time we're spending with Evy right now. It's as if we have to take advantage of every opportunity afforded us from now until we're dead in order to make up for this Pontiac accident. I'm sure it'll be alright though, most people only make one financial mistake their entire lives, right?

The Hallelujah.

     So, my last post was about Evy's colic, which was genuinely awful. Then I remembered a book some random stranger told me about at a restaurant. Sleep deprived and desperate, Catie & I walked down to Border's to pick up the book...money was no option. I know people say that, but I would've dropped a hundred bucks if that book would help her sleep; and by proxy, help me sleep a little too. We picked up a book called The Happiest Baby on the Block and it's an absolute life saver. Seriously, this book has probably saved a few babies lives. Before, we'd lay her down, she'd freak out, scream, cry, and generally be inconsolable. We read this book with the intensity and ferociousness of someone with barely any hope. After a few hours, we read the important parts that applied to us (having a baby that wouldn't stop crying) and tried out the suggestions in the book. If you do them correctly and in the right order, it totally works. I'm gonna highly suggest this book to anyone with babies. Not just colicky babies, but any baby that has ever cried. Go. Buy the book. Thank me later.
     P.S. Apparently, I was supposed to be posting this thing like a week ago. I said I'd post it in a day, but after having a baby, one day = a week. We've had the same todo list for the last month.

The New.

     Happy New Year everyone! For the last few years Catie and I have been in bed when the New Year rolled in. We just slept right through it. This year, that wasn't a problem. Evaline has decided to become colicky. It's not too terrible yet, but it's getting close. For the past four nights she's cried for about four hours straight, completely inconsolable. The new baby smell and charm is tarnishing quickly and my frustration levels are rising just as fast. A friend was over last night and told us it's not really colic until you start wondering how hard you could hit the baby's head against the wall to knock them out without doing any permanent damage. I can say we're not to that point, yet. Still though, most people stay out pretty late on New Year's eve. If you're one of those people, and you don't have kids yet, the way you feel in the morning is how I feel every morning. The only difference being that I don't have any crazy stories or incriminating photos that show up the next morning on Facebook.
     In the mean time my room has been converted into an obstacle course, rife with rockers, swings, blankies, baby shoes, and who knows what else. Trying to walk around in the dark is going to shorten my life considerably. The worst part of the whole thing is there's nothing I can do to make her feel better. It's pretty much the most powerless I've ever felt. Regardless, she's healthy, she's pretty, and this isn't going to last forever. Even if it feels like it.