Every five minutes or so a dog would amble through the room and lick the boy's chin saving enormous wear and tear on the furniture and carpets. Since we now live in a husky-free environment, Dylan's oral issue is, to say the least, an issue. Although our youngest son vomits on the rug less often than Franny and Zooey did, he more than makes up for that shortcoming, often sporting a chin-string of salvia which flows uninterrupted for hours. And for a while it seems that way. You plop the kid on a highly absorbent blanket and he just lies there drooling and occasionally rolling off onto the rug.
Life seems easy for the first time after a year of pure hell.
Dylan was walking or, to be more exact, teetering around the house like a wet sponge after a whiskey incident. Unlike his older brother, Stickboy, Dylan has the body and attitude of a pro wrestler. As though it isn't bad enough that he leaves a big wet patch on my trousers every time I get a leg hug, playtime with Dylan now has all the appeal of Jello rugby. And it is exactly this heinous combination of bipedal locomotion and voluminous slobber that has wrested control of my television. But Dylan knows he is being ripped off.