Last night Cate spiked a fever. We live right across the street from the ER and we always agonize about whether to bother taking our kids over for things like fevers. When it’s your baby, you tend to panic… just a bit.
So we’re sitting on the bed with Cate and her rosy cheeks burning between us discussing the situation.
Me: She’s been sick for a week now.
Andy: I’m torn.
Me: She’s coughing and this fever has been going for two days.
Me: She just spiked up to 103 about 6 hours ago and we’re not letting it sit there. We’ve been giving her Tylenol so we shouldn’t be worrying about fever induced brain damage.
Andy: uh huh.. *feeling her neck for swollen glands*
Me: She’s not wheezing so I don’t think we need to worry about pneumonia.
Andy: uh huh… *checking her skin for rashes*
Me: There’s no other major signs of anything wrong. She’s just coughing up phlegm and that’s good, right? It’s when she’s having dry cough that it’s bad, right?
Andy: uh huh… *checking her ears for redness*
Me: Look at us, trying to diagnose our daughter like we’re doctors or something.
Andy: Yeah. *checking her forehead again* The thing is, we take her in and she’ll be fine. We wait and she’ll have meningitis.
Me: I know…. I think we wait it out a little longer.
This morning, Cate was fine. Isn’t that always the way? We stress and nothing is wrong.