My Hero's Name is Motrin

Dinner out with the one-year old who is currently mastering the art of channeling her inner Linda Blair was fantastic. Oh, and how! First, on the way to my favorite pizza place of all time, I made the critical error of looking at Alexis. Oh. my. god. I. will. never. do. it. again. Unless Alexis wants me to. In which case I don't know what I'll do because she might go all le freak on me again. So I tried reattaching my head as we pulled into the parking lot and OH NO THEY HAVE THE WINDOWS OPEN. Yeah, last time I checked, it was like 95 degrees and like, it was so humid you could swim through the air and like, Yay! the air conditioning is broken. Because Pepporoni's is that good (and there isn't anything else we like near by, unless McDonald's suddenly counts, which it doesn't), we went in. The pizza was fabulous, the salad was yummy, the service was spot on, the one-year old was bipolar. Up. Down. Mommy. Daddy. Hungry. Not Hungry. Thirsty. Not Thirsty. Up. Down. You get the picture.

Sweet Thang kept up this act all night and all through the morning. I responded by pumping some Motrin down her throat and sending her to daycare. They get paid to deal with teething lunatics. I get paid to deal with grown-up lunatics. Sounds about right. And I should be getting the "Alexis isn't feeling like herself" call right around 1:00 when the Motrin wears off and our child is repossessed by the Molar Teeth Ripping Through Gums Demon.

Obviously, Burgh Baby has lost her head.