So, I saw my doctor for a followup visit today. I mentioned that while the night sweats have definitely abated, there is the small matter of me bursting into tears all the time. And even though I thought it was better, it's not as good as it was with the Zoloft. So, now we've moved on to Lexapro. And I agreed that I would not Google it obsessively to try to develop every crazy possible side effect there is.

In other news, D. is rocking his purple cast. You might think that parents who have a kid who got hurt on a ladder would not place the same child on top of a trash can for a photo op, but you clearly are not friends with Mr. WG.

Apparently all the kids in D's class spent the morning trying to give him their favorite toys, but he's too cool for that. And everyone he sees gets a lifted cast in greeting with an "It's my purple" to go. He did reasonably well at the doctor yesterday. I mean, yes, he fought the cast technician, but no more so than any 4-year-old kid would have done. When we got to Mrs. Block (because astoundingly, they did get us into the doc at a convenient time), she got out a baby and a doctor kit and said, "Oh, D., my baby hurt her arm." D peered into the doctor kit, reached in, and plucked out a car. "Thwarted by poor sorting skills," sighed Mrs. Block, but we agreed that there doesn't seem to be any lingering emotional trauma. So we're using this an opportunity to force language. With one hand out of commission, D. can't do things for himself with brute strength. So he has to ask for help.

As long as Mr. WG and his endless supply of candy isn't around, anyway.