It’s that season again, and I don’t mean Fall, the World Series, the NHL, or Champions League group stages. I’m talking about teething. That most wonderful time of infancy that pretty much covers most of it. The apotheosis of free-floating hostility in an otherwise adorable package. That fit-inducing, drool-producing, hard-chomping, fury-punctuated part of growing into toddlerhood.
This time, it’s molar time, baby.
The incoming molars seem to be producing more drool this time around than the front teeth ever did. I can tell the kid has a pretty low gag threshold, with as deeply as he shoves his hands into his mouth these days. Other than cold chewy toys and acetominaphen, I’m not sure what else I can do for him right now. My grandmother swears by the old-timey application of whiskey on the gums, but I’m not willing to try that just yet.
At any point, this post must end now, as he just woke up screaming. Joy!
