Plague Baby

BabyBoy is sick.  We're not quite sure what he has, other than a "fever of unspecified origin, with suspected Roseola".  Today starts the third day of fever, and if it IS roseola, this would be the last day of fever, then we'll enter the rash phase.  I've forced the issue and Hubby and I are splitting the time taking care of him at home, since we can't take him to daycare until he's been 24 hours without a fever.

I'd like to stop and take a moment to pat myself, and my genetic contribution to BabyBoy's immune system, on the back.  My "spunky immune system" (rhuematologists phrase, not mine) causes me a lot of grief, my body is trying to eat itself, starting in the joints, and I am on a vigorous medication regimen to try and slow that down.  Even with being in a constant state of immuno-suppression, I rarely get sick (but when I do, I tend to get REALLY sick).  BabyBoy has had a number of ear infections that seem to be more related to physiology than to immunology, but all in all, he's a healthy little dude.

All eyes in a pale face. 

Also, he's sitting in a box.

Begin Rant.....
Last Sunday, a friend came over with his 13 month old to hang out with Hubby and BabyBoy while I went out to lunch and SAW A MOVIE with a girlfriend from work.   The played as toddlers do, passing toys back and forth, then passed out in BabyBoy's crib for a nap together.  On Monday, we got an e-mail: "Oh, I forgot to mention, our kid was running a fever yesterday - he just had a febrile seizure with a high fever, and the doctor thinks he has roseola."

Answer me this, internets.  WHO the FUCK brings a sick kid with a fever over to play?  As much as daycare rules annoy me when I get hit with them, they're there for a reason.  "24 hours without medication and without evidence of fever above 100 accompanied by: diarrhea or vomiting, earache, headache, signs of irritability or confusion, sore throat, rash, fatigue that limits participation in daily activities." Do I have to start requiring a doctor's note for playdates?

The thing that really chaps my ass is that this is not the first time this parental unit has brought plague-baby over to interact with others.  Does anyone remember the great stomach flu of 2011?  Yep. Plague-baby started that one too.  Oh, and it's the same couple that criticizes other parents on sleep-training and nutrition.
End Rant.

I should look at this as a positive, right?  Each infant sickness that he has builds his immune system and (theoretically) means one less cold/flu/infectious disease later.  I just hate that he's sick, and I can't help him, other than to administer Tylenol, cuddle him, make sure he drinks, and try to force food into his no-appetite mouth.  Yesterday I think he ate two pieces of apples, 3 french fries and two slices of mandarin oranges total, which is the complete opposite of our normal hoover-it-down-not-picky eater.

Not even mac and cheese balls could entice him to eat more!

Night time seems to be the worst for the fever.  Wednesday night he topped out at 103.3, last night it was 104.3.  I cradled his strong little body that was radiating SO much heat and waited for the Tylenol to work, while contemplating the best way to commit mariticide on my soundly asleep and snoring loudly husband, and I tried not to worry to much. 

My Mama used to sing a lullaby to me, best I can figure, it's a slightly lyrically-changed version of  a ballad written in 1873 called "Put My Little Shoes Away" .  I sing it to BabyBoy, because it's one of the few pieces of her I have left, but at the same time, it's a really shitty song to sing to a kid, sick or not.  I don't sing it to him when he's sick, it puts too much worry into my head and heart. 

Repeat after me: "We're entering day three of fever.  This will be done soon, he'll be fine, and we'll have a nice long weekend together."

He WHAT?!?!

Last Sunday, I was putting away laundry upstairs while Hubby and BabyBoy were downstairs.  I heard a THUD, followed by a wailing cry from BabyBoy and hubby called out for me to hurry downstairs.

I rushed down the staircase (Somehow managing to NOT brain myself on the low ceiling on the way down) to find my son, bleeding profusely from his toe, with a cordless drill on the ground and the power pack for the drill  to the side.  Hubby was holding the boy, trying to comfort him.  The minute BabyBoy saw me, he cried "MAAAAMAAAAA!" and reached for me.

I scooped him up, and put pressure on his bleeding toe.  "What HAPPENED?"

"Well, he somehow managed to disconnect the battery pack from the cordless drill and dropped it on his toe." Hubby replied.

"What the FUCK was he doing with the cordless drill in the first place?" I hissed in reply.

"Well, he wanted it.", he explained rather lamely.

"I've asked for a pony every year for my birthday since I could TALK and I don't have one yet.  You don't give him everything he WANTS!"

Complete tone of voice shift,  "Let Mama see, sweetie, let me see your toe." BabyBoy was already calming down from the nearness of the familiar.  While it was bleeding a lot, it didn't seem to be fatal.  The weird hoof-like edge of his big toe nail was gone, and there was a small cut at the end of the toe, but he was tolerating pressure well, it wasn't bruising, and I could wiggle it with no pain response from him.

"Particularly not POWER TOOLS!" I turned my back, shaking my head.  How is this something I need to explain to another adult?

"I don't think it's broken.  We'll see how he walks when he's calm enough to try." I sat down in the rocking chair and snuggled my baby close.  We've had a relatively small number of accidents that make him bleed - I can only think of one toenail trim gone awry in the first week, and once where he sat down hard and bit his lip.  This was definitely our first 'stupid accident, baby got hurt' experience.

Hubby came over with tears in his eyes "I didn't think he'd get hurt.  I feel bad he hurt himself."

"He's ok.  I know we need to let him explore.  You didn't mean for him to get hurt.  He's ok."  I was reassuring us both out loud.  I needed to NOT continue to beat Hubby up about it, he needed to hear BabyBoy was ok, all three of us needed to calm down and breathe for a minute.

I fashioned a spectacular end-of-toe bandage out of cut down gauze pad and medical tape, and there are no apparent long-lasting ill effects.  It will be interesting to see how his weird toenail part grows out, but since it hit the tip and not the nail bed, I'm hopeful he won't have an odd-ball big toe for the rest of his life.  In the meantime, power tools get put away when we're done using them, instead of left on the floor.

Now.  Where's my fucking pony?