As I mentioned in my last post (here), something was up with Bean — my normally great eater was barely touching her food. By the time dinner was done, the poor kid was burning up. A quick check with the thermometer confirmed what I already knew: a big fever. A dose of meds and into bed!
The only time Bean wants to snuggle in the true sense of the word is when she’s sick. (Normally her version of “snuggling” is to lie close together without touching.) So I’m trying not to breathe in her germs while she snuggles right up to me and (eventually) falls asleep. I extract myself from beneath her head and slip out of the bedroom to come downstairs in time to hear late-night-dinner-praises from Hubby. As we’re discussing the finer art of trying to cook dinner when 2 little ones want my attention, we’re interrupted by calls of “Mummy!” from upstairs. It’s Bean.
I go into her room and she starts recounting (at full volume) how she woke up and was calling for me. I gently interrupt her (in a quiet voice, hoping she’ll follow suit and not wake up her sister) to ask her why she’s awake. “I want you to lie down with me Mummy.” Right. 20 questions it is.
– Did you have a bad dream?
– Do you have to pee?
Yessss! Got it on the second try!
After the bathroom, she snuggles up to me once again and falls back asleep (relatively quickly, phew!). A bit more chatting with Hubby, and then I go upstairs to get ready for bed. Just before I fall asleep there’s more calls of “Mummy!” coming from Bean’s room. Sigh. This is going to be a long night.
Bean’s sitting up in her bed, a sure sign of a bad dream. I climb in beside her as she’s telling me there was a lion in her room. “It was just a bad dream sweetie. You’re safe now. Here, snuggle with Koala (a present from the Easter bunny and one of her new favourite bedtime buddies) and we’ll lie down and go back to sleep.” She starts scooting away from the stuffed animal, moaning about how there’s a lion climbing on Koala. A quick check revealed that Bean’s eyes were indeed open.
Umm… a lion? “I don’t see a lion.”
“Yes mummy, right there!”
I feel Bean’s forehead, and she’s burning up again. “Ok, I’m going to get some more médicaments for you.”
“I’m coming too!”
I start to protest but the fearful looks she keeps shooting at Koala persuade me otherwise. “Ok, come on then.”
As we’re heading down the stairs, Bean is walking funny. Like she has spent way too many hours riding a horse.
– Bean, what’s up? Why are you walking funny?
– Mummy, there’s a lion.
I must not have heard that right. It looks like she’s avoiding a crack in the sidewalk, except that it’s our carpeted stairs with no crack in sight.
– A line? Like a long straight line?
– No Mummy. A squiggly one with ears and a mouth that goes ROAR!
At this point, I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing at her. Part of me thinks this is hilarious. The other part of me thinks that she must be hallucinating from the fever and maybe I should actually do something about it. The practical part wins (although not, I admit, until after I’ve had a good (silent) laugh with my face turned away so that she can’t see…). I give her some more meds, a sip of water, and climb into bed with her and a cold, damp washcloth in an effort to reduce the fever. The poor kid curls up with me and falls asleep (as do I — waking up around 4am when El wants to feed).
My sleep-addled brain knows enough to think that tomorrow (or is it now today?) I’ll keep her home from school and it will be a slow day… a pyjama-wearing, movie-watching, snuggling-the-sick-kid-while-trying-not-to-catch-it kind of day. Here’s hoping it’s only a 24-hr bug.
Edited to add: It was indeed only a 24-hr fever, and by dinner-time the next day she was back to her usual self.