Desperate measures

Samson's head cold continues apace, and Vicki had to pick him up early from school yesterday because he was running a low-grade fever. So I'm home with him today and doing my best to keep him resting. I can't even type that with a straight face, but I'm trying.

We took a little field trip this morning to get my car's emissions tested. Lots of cool machines making lots of noise. Unfortunately, the woman who helped us looked less like a Michelle [the name on her badge] and more like a Michael. Strahan to be precise. So of course Samson kept noting "Man helping us; that man is helping us." [Sidenote: Samson gets like RainMan if you don't acknowledge he's said something, which makes it particularly awkward when he misidentifies the gender of the civil servant responsible for giving your car a passing grade for the state emissions test.]

After a quick trip to the bookstore and a bit of lunch, we came home for a nap. Selfishly I needed to use the time to catch up on some reading for my thesis, and Samson --- his entreaties aside --- really could use the sleep to help him fight this cold.

Nothing doing. I had just settled down into a chair on the deck with "The Craft of Research" (every bit the pageturner it sounds) when I heard through the monitor: "Daddy. I'm soaking wet." So up I went and indeed he was.

This was not unprecedented. And it certainly could have been worse. But occasionally, Samson will take all the water from his sippie cup and simply spit/dribble it out. Which he immediately confessed to upon my arrival.

So new clothes, new diaper, and new sheets [he was very excited to show me that he'd made "circles" by spitting his water onto the crib sheet]. Sadly, La-La #1 was also wet, and there just is no napping without her, despite the recent memorandum of understanding concerning La-Las 2 and 3.

I could feel the nap window closing, and I knew that putting La-La in the dryer --- which Samson helpfully suggested --- would take too long. So with a promise of imminent return, I headed to the basement for the ironing board. I mean, I spray dress shirts with water when I'm pressing them; why shouldn't this work?

Ok, so it wasn't a foolproof plan. And I think I may have singed her a little. La-La is now warm and not wet but moist. She's also pretty much pleated.

And as I type Sam is still not asleep. But I can take some small comfort in knowing I did everything I could.

Oh, by the way, it's official: I am ridiculous.