The Poo, just over her strep and staph infections, was her old bouncy self Monday. She refused all food, but that isn’t terribly unusual.
What is unusual is the fact that, at 3 p.m., she voluntarily laid on the couch and watched TV while quietly playing with her Little Einsteins toys. She repeatedly told me she was cold, despite the seasonably warm day. Still, I didn’t think much of it.
Around dinnertime I asked her again if she wanted to eat and she said no. Her flushed cheeks and glassy eyes indicated a fever; It can’t be, I thought. But I took her temperature anyway, and sure enough, she had a fever.
Tylenol, bathtime, snack. She cavorted in her usual way before bed. The temperature must be a fluke, I thought.
At least, until 11:30 that night when she woke up asking to go potty (!) and proceeded to cry inconsolably and throw off an alarming dry heat. She dug her fingers in both ears and begged me to make the pain stop.
At 2 a.m. I woke Mr. Chicken - still wretchedly ill himself and in the throes of finals - and we made our way to the ER.
I just couldn’t let it go on. Of course, The Poo was hysterical and scared and the doctor acted like we were idiots for wasting her time on a three-year-old with sore ears.
“Both ears are red,” she said, giving me the hairy eyeball. “You can give her Advil for that, you know.”
I’ll cut her some slack, because I saw the drunken, shaking college girl heaving in the next room. I know she probably sees her share of un-emergency emergencies.
But my girl, she was in pain. And I had to fix it.
We headed off into the early morning clutching a prescription for a super antibiotic while a relieved little girl excitedly described the unfamiliar midnight landscape. Mr. Chicken dropped us at home and headed to the 24-hour pharmacy.
Free from the tyranny of tongue depressors and thermometers, The Poo happily climbed into the guest bed beside me, demanded to exchange her pull-up for underpants and finished her snack while watching a half-hour of “Little Bear.”
Me? I held my heavy belly and rubbed my heavier eyes. My husband opened the door quietly, and stood by the side of the bed, watching his daughter. He placed his hand on her forehead, handed me a small bottle and a syringe, and sneezed.
“Good call, Mommy,” he said, with a weary nod. “You were right. You always know when we need to go.”
I was so tired and so sick myself, and so full of worry for my baby, that tears welled up in my eyes. I looked away and nodded.
Finally, we slept.
At 10:30 a.m. The Poo still slept, sprawled on the big bed, a hint of the woman she will be in her bony kneecaps. I crept downstairs for coffee and phone calls, canceling school and rescheduling prenatal appointments.
As I sat in front of the TV like a zombie, I contemplated motherhood and natural selection. Seemingly endless months of illnesses leave me wondering if we’re being targeted by Darwin’s theory.
That’s it, I thought, hand wrapped around my favorite green mug. I’m building a bubble.