To be fair, this is only the second one they’ve endured. And that whole preemie thing put us mostly in isolation for the last one – minus the doctor visits for RSV shots and ER runs for the sniffles when Mommy panicked. So we don’t really have a HUGE comparison.
So, being the wild child(s) we are, we enrolled the muppets in daycare. Because nothing says maturity like a runny nose lasting five months. Straight.
But as of Sunday, a fever joined the runny nose. Yay. The muppets are troopers. They couldn’t be *that* sick. Search completely inhaled a peanut butter and jelly sandwich – the grownup size. I’m pretty sure Destroy may have ingested some of the foodstuffs skin care treatment he was experimenting with.
But Monday morning we hit the ground running with a triple digit body temp. When I got home, Destroy was lying listlessly in Grandma N’s lap. He plays the pathetically sick well.
He did not eat a single bite of his dinner.
Let me repeat that. Destroy – Did. Not. Eat. A. Single. Bite.
Destroy was very sick. Food is the gage.
And then the asthma attack hit. Eyes wide, wheezing lungs and a rapidly retracting chest. Fear covered his face as he screamed. Ah hah! This one I remembered from our NICU days. Screaming = breathing. This is good. Well, the breathing. Not the screaming.
Little man reached for the facemask of his nebulizer. (Our normal encounter with this particular torture device generally involves full body MMA wrestling matches. I have almost won once.)
This time he lay back in my arms and closed his eyes. His flushed face burned against me as I flashed back to the muppet’s first few weeks – his tiny 2-pound body held against my naked chest. A tiny hat sliding over his drooping eyelids. A completely content stoned little surfer-dude. A mask once again covering his face.
Search wandered over and climbed up on the couch. By himself! (When did my tiny baby get tall?!) He pointed. “Brother,” he announced. Gesturing further at the contraption complete with a dragon snout stickered on the facemask, “Brother. Nose.”
Search handed me the thermometer. 101. “Oh no!” decreed my studious little man.
I zapped Destroy with the new fangled non-invasive temperature-taking device. The screen lit up bright red.
“Oh no!” reiterated Search.
Once again harkening back almost two years, I proffered miracle medication (ok, it was Toddler Motrin) via a syringe.
He fell sound asleep for 27 minutes.
For hours on end I could see him sitting in his crib. Quietly reading a book. Then he’d cry. And flop himself back down. He was exhausted.
Tonight we’re sleeping soundly. (For now.)
I’m gathering their little tummies feel better based on reports they profusely puked all over Grandma N today.