Monday afternoon, 4:30pm. My cell phone rings. I glance down to see who’s calling, and my
stomach freefalls – DAYCARE. Yes, that
call that all working parents dread with every fiber of their being. Their child’s daycare, school, nanny,
caregiver, calling to tell you something that is important enough to relay now, and not when you pick your kiddo
up.
Daycare: Hi
Kristin, just wanted to let you know that Miles is running a fever of 102.2.
SILENCE
Me: (confused
that there wasn’t more information in this first sentence) Is he very
sick? Is he vomiting? Is he awake?
Should I come pick him up right now?
Daycare: Oh
no, he’ll be fine. We know you’ll be
here in just a little while.
MORE SILENCE
Me: Okay,
thank you.
Caregivers: I understand you don’t want us to totallyohmygoshfreakout when our kiddos
are feeling under the weather, but if you could refrain from the Mary Poppins
schtick when you call, that would be cool.
Because Miles has never had a fever before, let alone been sick, so you
may as well be telling me that he was kidnapped. It emits the same emotional reaction from me.
I skipped out early from work, and went to pick up
my sweet little schmooglie. His teacher
tells me he’s in one of the swings in the back, in a “quiet and peaceful” area
of the infant room. They have a blanket
draped over the swing. I lift the
blanket, and my eyes behold the most pitiful, sad, frowny faced little baby in
the world. No, there’s a mistake…this isn’t my son. Do you know my son? The one who never stops smiling, and wants to
playfully grab your nose at every opportunity?
The one who kicks his feet in a fit of joy when you snort at him? This isn’t my baby; this isn’t Miles.
But it is.
And it’s horrifically depressing.
We load up and head home. He drifts in and out of sleep. We get home, and I take his temp. The thermometer reads 97.3. STUPID THERMOMETER.
Here’s the deal…I thought his head felt warm Monday morning. And I chalked it up to teething. I took his temp, and it read 97.3. So, off to school we went. I had also taken his temp Sunday night,
thinking the same thing. And yes, it
read 97.3 then as well. And I know it’s not 97.3.
Digression
into bad mom moment: The thermometer read 97.3 because I didn’t know how to use it. After a half dozen readings and my total
freak out of “how am I going to take care of him if the thermometer won’t help
me?!” my husband points out that I am pushing
the wrong button. Look, we all do
stupid stuff like this as first time (or even fifth time) parents. It happens.
But when you’re in the thick of what you think is Yellow Fever, you feel
not only like a complete and total moron, but a moron with an apparent vendetta
against your own offspring because you CAN’T EVEN USE A THERMOMETER
PROPERLY.
We debated between taking him to his pediatrician in
the morning, or taking him to Urgent Care that night. He had a faint rash on his arms and
legs. Against my better judgment, I went
to WebMD for a third opinion and became certain that he had some rare disease
transmitted by bites from purple dragonflies that live in New Zealand and
migrate to Florida once every seven years to choose a chubby little innocent
victim to attack (Miles). Urgent Care,
it is.
Ugh, Urgent Care.
You’re like the ER, only with less blood spilling out of tree trimming
related injuries. I’m imagining swarms
of invisible germs floating around the air, crawling all over your benches and
chairs, and covering every form you have me sign. But when faced with the option of waiting at
least 15(!) hours to see your pediatrician, you suck it up and break out the
Purell.
After a 20 minute wait, we were seen by a super
friendly nurse that Miles really seemed to like. Side note: at this point, he was smiling and
laughing through his 102 degree fever. That gave us a little peace. The physician arrives, tells us it’s probably strep (!) and writes a
prescription for Amoxicillin. We start
antibiotics that night.
Meds for an infant...that’s a joke all on its
own. First, your pharmaceutical
companies are going to take something that was probably clear or white, and dye
it bubblegum pink, or my favorite, grenadine red. This is unnecessary. My kid doesn’t care what color it is, or
really what it tastes like. His primary
concern is where I’m about to stick that stupid little syringe.
Giving medicine to an infant is like giving medicine
to your cat. You have to hold his head,
hope he opens his mouth long enough for you to get .5ml in (only 4.5ml to
go!) He’s going to flail and shake his
head, he’s going to clamp his mouth shut and purse his lips (smart kid) and
he’s going to end up with Tylenol on top of his head, which I won’t notice for
another hour and instantly think he must have some horrible wound somewhere on
his precious body because this very red, very sticky stuff must surely be blood! Oh wait, why does it smell like cherries?
At least he can’t scratch or bite me. Yet.
We head to his pediatrician for a follow-up
appointment. We’re told it’s not strep
(thank goodness) and that it’s “just” an ear infection. Okay, that I can handle. I’m a little less WebMD paranoid now with
this diagnosis.
Feeding an infant while he has an ear infection…also
a joke. His ear hurts; he doesn’t want
to eat, his appetite is diminished.
We’re getting 3-4oz. in every few hours.
Not as much as we’d like, but it’s something. He gets upset because he’s hungry. He gets upset because I try to feed him. He gets upset with being upset. I cannot convince this kid that his bottle
will be delicious and make his tummy happy and hey, at least it’s not pink!
Sleeping…nonexistent. Our lives revolved in 2-3 hour increments of
nap, medicine, bottle, bath. Evan spent
the better part of the first 24 hours with Miles sleeping on his chest in the
recliner. And if it was 3:15am, you can
bet Miles was up and awake, staring at you like one of those creepy rave kids,
wanting to know where the party was. But
as soon as he hit Evan’s chest, it was lights out.
Confession: I stayed home with Miles on
Wednesday. He was feeling better, but
not 100%. He slept on my chest most of
the day. I flopped in that recliner,
watched a marathon of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour, and I enjoyed snuggling with
Miles. Because that’s something he
hasn’t done since he was about three weeks old.
He’s not one of those “curl up on your chest and nap” babies. When it’s bedtime, he wants you to rock him
or put him in his crib, and that’s it.
According to my husband, “He thinks he’s grown – no more baby
stuff.” So we snuggled like we did many
months ago, and I loved it.
His fever finally broke on Wednesday morning, and
today, he went back to daycare, smiling and bopping his teacher in the face. We’re still up 2-3 times a night, but it’s
getting better. I’ve had more coffee
than I care to admit. Yesterday, I took
a shower for the first time since Monday
morning. We’ve lost track of all
time; days run together in a big blur, because our only focus is Miles. And those last three pre-pregnancy
pounds? Gone, and then some. You have no room for food when your child is
sick.
But I can tell you that the first time that
thermometer (which I know how to use and
read now, thankyouverymuch) reads 97.9, you will cry tears of joy and kiss your
sweet baby all over his chubby cheeks and fuzzy head. When he smiles a genuine, hey mom I feel
better smile, you’ll melt into a pile of goo.
You will laugh when giving him antibiotics now, because even though he’s
fighting it and smearing pink goo everywhere, they’re working. You will
forget about every minute of lost sleep, exhaustion, worry, and hunger, because
it was worth it to care for the child who is really your heart, outside of your
body. And you will thank God in Heaven,
your lucky stars, the check-out gal at Walgreens and your postman that he’s getting better.
My mom said we should get a rectal thermometer,
because you can’t screw that up. My gut
tells me I could probably screw that up, too…but more than likely by thinking
it was my thermometer and not Miles’
butt thermometer. Oy.
Only 7 days of antibiotics to go,
Kristin
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