Elmo Does Not Cure Mastitis

Click on the song below and allow me to paint you a little picture.

I wake up the other morning with a sore breast. This is not especially uncommon because my son breastfeeds like a baby cow. I choose to disregard the pain because I am a Spartan warrior. But time marches on and the pain in my breast increases. In fact the whole thing is turning an angry shade of red. By late afternoon there are red streaks shooting up my armpit into my inner arm. I have a fever. I feel terrible. I am at my parents' house, about fifty miles south of my desired destination: home.

I load my toddler and my throbbing breast in the car. We merge onto the interstate and then come to an immediate stop. It's the beginning of a summer weekend. We are surrounded by happy campers in their recreational vehicles. Baby JAR and I are decidedly not happy campers. It's hot, we're hungry, and did I mention that my breast is on fire? At times like this, there is only one thing that keeps my toddler from going into complete meltdown... Elmo. More specifically, Elmo's song about the power of songs.

Now I know that I am the parent. I am in charge. I can say no. But I just can't handle the screams. Please, for the love of God, be quiet so I can cradle my breast and weep in the slow lane.

So I say yes. I choose Elmo.

We listen to this song on repeat. For nearly two hours, crawling across the pavement at 5 miles per hour.

Songs follow you wherever you lead them. True. Or it's true when the song is on your Elmopalooza CD and you have an 18-month-old in the backseat.

Songs can keep you company when you're alone, so find a song and you'll be halfway home. False. I am not anywhere close to my home, you lying puppet.

Songs bring you up when you're down. Songs are the best friends around. No, Elmo. You know who my best friends are? Ibuprofen, antibiotics, and Shiraz.