I’d like to say I started off the new year with a bang, but honestly it feels like I started it with more of a shlep. I don’t know why I expected anything else. As Bennett reminded me, January 2nd was the one-year anniversary of his mallet finger incident [and he sloppily marked it on my beautiful, brand spanking new calendar. Why can’t they keep their hands off that thing?]. To celebrate the anniversary he fell, cut his leg, and then proceeded to develop some weird infection. To cap it all off, he decided to have a humongous allergic reaction to that infection, flaming hives and all. So, when the rest of my pals were knocking back Bloody Mary concoctions to mark the first day back at school, I was at the pediatrician’s office, where [after an infectious disease consult — really??] I was told to take Bennett home and put him on an assortment of meds. And bed rest.
Bed rest. Bed rest. Bed rest. Oh, how I yearned for that in each pregnancy… especially the latter ones. I seem to recall dropping to my knees and begging for it when I was pregnant with Fiona. I think I even offered my OB a bribe when I was pregnant with Sidney. Oh, how I yearned for the doctor to order me off my feet and into bed where I was prohibited from undertaking any necessary movement. Images of knitting projects and movie marathons danced in my head. But that’s all they did, because it was never meant to be. No, the only person in this family to get bed rest is the one person for whom it is a near physical impossibility.
At first I thought that the massive doses of Benadryl would help, but it seems like Mr. Bennett is somewhat like Lisbeth Salander’s crazed half-brother in the Dragon Tattoo books — you know, the one who feels no pain and can stand up and run a marathon after having his arm seared off?

Even monster doses of the pink stuff did not fell my firstborn. I keep hearing a Russian voice in my head, “It not work. He is like ox, this boy.” Yup, kind of like Kathy Bates at the end of Misery — he keeps coming back for more. At some point, I thought of swigging the bottle myself and taking a long nap until it was all over. Instead, I stationed him in my bed, feet elevated [doctor’s orders], remote and puzzle book in hand. I tried to make some dent in the mountain of work on my desk — or more accurately, strewn all over the office floor. But every few moments my work reverie was punctuated by:
“My feet are dropping, bring more more pillows!”
“More blankets!”
“How much longer do I have to lie down for?”
“The ice in my water has melted!”
“I spilled water all over your sheets!”
“Can I get up yet?”
“The remote is frozen!”
“Am I done?”
No, but I may be. Anyway, it’s day two, and I could take him in to school after lunch… but it seems he has gotten the hang of bed rest today and is threatening to chain  himself to my bed if I try and move him. It’s pissing rain, I’m not getting anything done, and a large, jumpy nine year old boy has taken residence in my bed.  Looks like I’ll be celebrating the new year with a Benadryl cocktail and  an enormous crate of gummy whatevers. Stop by if you’re in the mood.