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I don't know what happened. My little Charlotte was in high spirits when she woke up Thursday morning. She put on her pants like a pro, sat still while I brushed her hair, ate all of her breakfast. She laughed and giggled all the way to school in the car. I was off of work that week, so I drove back home to hang out with Marc.
We were right in the middle of an Xbox game of Sonic: Generations, when the phone rang. It was the school. It was that phone call. You know the phone call I mean. The one every parent hates to get.
"Yes," said the official voice on the phone. (Why do official people always start important sentences with "yes" anyway?) Anyway, she said "Yes, we have Charlotte here in the office. She has a temperature of one-oh-one."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," I said, without a moment's hesitation. I handed the Xbox controller off to Marc, stuck my feet inside of my shoes, and headed off to the school.
When I walked in, one of the teachers was sitting next to my forlorn little rag doll daughter with a plastic bag of clothes in her hand.
"Did she have an accident?" I asked.
"No," she said. "She just threw up a little, but I cleaned her up and changed her shirt for her."
Oh, poor little baby! I scooped her up in my arms and she let her head plop down on my shoulder. She slept the whole way home and even napped some more on the couch later. She didn't even fight me when I gave her some medicine.
Now, I don't know about anyone else here, but I hate it when my kids get sick. I hate it! Their little bodies are all hot, and their noses are all snotty. I'm sure their muscles hurt, and their insides are fighting a battle I can't join. It isn't like when they're sad or upset. I can help them with sad and upset. But I can't help them with sick! All I can do is make them more comfortable while their bodies take care of it. Drink the water, take the Tylenol, have a blanket, watch the episodes of Spongebob on Netflix, maybe have a snuggle. That's all I can do.
She had a low grade fever all through Friday. Saturday it shot up to 101 again. That's when her dad took her upstairs for a cool bath. The bath seemed to break her fever, though, and she was fever free and playing outside by Sunday.
Monday came, and I walked her into her classroom at preschool. She got several welcomes back from her friends and her teachers.
And then she coughed.
It was one of those hoarse coughs. You know the ones. Like an angry sea lion. That kind. I took a deep breath, then asked her if she was okay.
"Yep!" she said with delight. Then she kissed me and ran away to play with the friends she'd missed.
Okay. Well, I guess she's okay. And I know she's going to sick again, because kids get sick. And I'll feel helpless then, too. Then she'll get over it.
"Mom, I don't feel good," Marc said to me Sunday night, just before it was time to practice his violin. "I think I have what Charlotte had."
"Does your stomach feel upset?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he said with his droopy eyes, moving his hand to his stomach.
"Charlotte didn't have an upset stomach. Practice your violin."
Nice try, Marc. Nice try!
Mark sounds a lot like my husband after the boys have been sick. "ya know, I think my stomach hurts too." Really? Seriously? Glad she is on the mend - I loved this line - I'm sure their muscles hurt, and their insides are fighting a battle I can't join.
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