Today was supposed to be the inaugural visit of Dr. Nanny, the sweet, moments-from-graduation med student I have hired to look after Simone from time to time. I was excited about having the opportunity to get some work done during the daylight hours, before my mind has begun to drizzle out my ear as it does at the end of the day. My work thus dispatched, my evenings would once again be free to use as god intended, for the dissemination of my complaints and crackpot theories via the Internet. I’ve missed you people. Of course I was also excited for Simone, as she would have a caregiver capable of using the Glasgow Coma Scale post inevitable head injury.
But it was not to be.
Simone is sick (hopefully as a result of the MMR vaccine she got a week ago and not something more sinister) and is absolutely beside herself with ennui. Nothing is any good—being held, not being held, sitting, crawling, toys, the absence of toys, cats, the absence of cats—it is all too tedious to bear, and I couldn’t very well subject Dr. Nanny to such histrionics, not if I want her to return. Besides, I get a little mother bear-y when Simone is sick, and all I want to do today is hold my baby while she vainly protests, plying her with Tylenol and endless tuneless renditions of Fly Me to the Moon. Pausing occasionally, of course, to insert a lubed thermometer into her tender asshole.
Before you close your browser in disgust, let me explain that in fact Simone finds this LESS objectionable than the axillary method (ever since her NICU days, she has reacted to a thermometer under the arm as if I had heated it first over an open flame). Also, rectal temperatures are much more accurate, and as Simone’s topped 102 degrees an hour ago, I am not screwing around with armpits, my friends. Besides, you all know how the saying goes:
temps be wary,
To protect ‘em
use the rectum!
(Ok, I just made that up. But it SHOULD be a saying, don’t you agree?)
And as you can tell, because I am here writing to you, I seem to be getting a little time to myself today after all, as Simone has been asleep for an hour. This is the most telling sign that she is verily ill, as the poor moppet never, ever sleeps longer than 40 minutes during the day. So I am sending up a tiny flare to tell you that I’m still here, and that the end is nigh. Not THE END, the end, but rather the end of me not being able to snatch even a moment to write to you. Hurray for Dr. Nanny! Now I’m off to feel Simone’s forehead and hold a spoon before her mouth to see it fog reassuringly.