Sick

After romping in the park, true to form for a 15-month old, Owen happily crashed, exhausted, in the stroller for the short walk home. When I put his sleepy body in his crib, he felt a little warm, but I chalked it up to the warm house, the fun night with Monica, Klaus, and Kai.

Three hours later my poor boy awoke a sweaty, shivery kiddo. His temperature was around 102, and later, 104. No vomit or other fluid loss (wink) just hot and miserable. Tylenol and nursies to the rescue.

Even though I know this happens to every kid - this mysterious viral vagabond sweeping through the house - it takes every fiber of sanity I have to not rush Owen to the nearest urgent care, thrust him towards the attending physician, and insist she "Make him better. NOW." I'm sure said physician would look at me, bewildered, and of course I would have to reminder her that this is Precious Owen and therefore she could be arrested for not jumping to action.

There's just something so heartbreaking about a sick toddler, the ragdoll limpness in the limbs that are normally moving a mile a minute and very often smacking me on the head, the eyes that normally twinkle with the newly formed plan to grab the pen off the desk and practice running down the hall with it, yes those eyes now meet yours and ask "What happened? Why am I hot and cold all at the same time? Why do you keep kissing me?"

He's already starting to look like he feels better, although he's slept most of the day. I know he'll be better, at most in a day or two, but it's just another reminder that being a parent means that you'll often wish it could be you instead of your kid.