e has a fever and a rash and a case of the blues. For the past three nights, poor bean has been inconsolable. No amount of nursing or singing or bouncing helps. Wrapping him up calms his screams to whimpers, but his rest is fitful and requires waltzes around the our island, with plenty of spins.
Speaking of dancing, I’ve nearly finished imprinting the music video to Sia’s Chandelier into my memory. My view count is in the fifties. Vilified as a pedophilic pageant, all I can find in those 3 minutes and 52 seconds is a reverence for movement and freedom and music. Also, I’ve redoubled my efforts to obtain the middle splits by Christmas.
Pray for bean; his sixth month has been particularly rough so far. In truth his life so far has been a lesson to me that he is stronger, tougher, then I ever predict. We were quoted ten days; then we can hope for clear skin and a settled stomach. I hope, too, that his sleeps are sweet, and that whatever gives him cause to scream so tragically dies a total, lightless death.