Monday, May 10, 2010

Feverish Toddlers: The Answer to Our Energy Needs?

My commute this morning was 7 minutes long.  In practical terms, amigos, that means I can't finish Kashmir or Won't Get Fooled Again in my car.  (Note that it would take over 3 trips to get through Dazed and Confused...)  These are the little sacrifices we make, I suppose.

I'm not going to give you the full tilt moving weekend story.  Suffice it to say that everyone is exhausted, sore, and the house is filled with boxes, wadded up balls of packing tape and Wall Street Journal pages.  Note:  Make sure your movers don't make crosses of flimsy brown plastic tape directly around stacks of plates when you're not looking.   You'll come to regret that.  Adding to the fun was Captain Adventure himself, who decided to get really ill the night we moved.

I learned two things this weekend.  The first being that swimming at 2:30am is nuts.  And it's cold.  Really cold.  Second, I learned (to my fright) that human skin can actually be painfully hot to the touch.

At 3pm, Jack was flushed and running a respectable 102.6 degree fever.  So we smacked him with a syringe full of Motrin and inaugurated our pool with a father/son swim.  All we heard is [POOOOWL!  DAK POOOOWL!].  After 30 minutes of that, our problem was all but solved.  Probably an ear infection, we'd be keeping an eye on him.  No sweat.

Ha.  No sweat.  Right.  At 2:15am, I woke to weak but steady crying.  When I pull him from his crib, the (completely limp) rag doll was radiating energy like one of those old gas space heaters.  103.6.  Awesome.  His skin against mine felt incredibly hot.  Yes friends, my brand new neighbors were treated to the sounds of a wailing baby, splashing, three adults singing Bible songs, and my teeth chattering, all before 3 in the morning.  (We do like to be first, you know.)  I'm surprised nobody saw any little red sniper dots on our foreheads.

Growing up, we generally swam in tanks (a.k.a. ponds or small lakes).  I've never had regular access to a real pool, much less owned a pool myself.  I imagined that it would take federal legislation to get me out of there when I finally got one.  I would just live in there.  But this "luxury" has become the equivalent of eating cake at gunpoint.  It's just not as much fun when it's not your idea.  And it's definitely not your idea when someone orders you into cold water in the middle of the night.

Majesty and I pull shifts back and forth to get him to sleep (I'm sure her shifts were by definition longer), and tromp on over to the E.R. about 8am to score an unnaturally pink antibiotic.  After a Bucky Special*, I was (mostly) functional and (mostly) safe to drive.

Happy Mother's Day.  We want a mulligan.

*A Triple Venti Nonfat Latte, ideally enjoyed after minimal sleep.

UPDATE:  I forgot to mention that Jack kept saying [DAHTAH.  AH.  DAHTAH.  AH.] before, during, and after his E.R. visit.  We explained, to little effect, that we were pretty sure that Doctor Oz  doesn't work Sundays.  And that he lives in New Jersey.

UPDATE 2:  Happy birthday, Bono.  Many happy returns, bro.


Jennifer Reinsch said...

Sorry to hear that Jack was sick, but I'm glad to know that he was calling on the good Doctor Oz to heal him.

Donna said...

Well that sounds like a good way to break in the pool- taking advantage of its healing qualities. I am laughing that Jack knows who Dr. Oz is! Tell HM to send house pics!