Polar Bear Swim
Okay, one more note about Sweetpea's brush with a serious type-A kid virus before I get back to The Big Picture.
For those parents out there with kids who haven't experienced this, Sweepea and I had a frightening enounter with a fever yesterday. She had been battling a nasty cold or the nameless viral thing that pediatricians refer to when they can't tell you what it is. This one was not of the 24-hour kind: it had settled in for a long stay and took up noisy residence in her lungs. Eventually her good humor disappeared and Sweetpea turned into a snotty, cranky mess, throwing more food than eating it and generally whining her way through interminable 18 hour days before lapsing into a croupy sleep. As miserable as I was (I had a visiting sister who was recuperating from surgery and my husband was away on business), this stage seems like heaven now compared to the spiked fevers she developed a few days into the illness, something new to us (we are neophyte parents after all). Fevers in kids come on fast and they can hover in the low 100s with very little affect, or they can soar up and fry their brains with frightening speed, so the "I walked the floors with you when you were sick" speech our parents gave us has taken on new meaning for me. I'm not a hoverer - a parent who stays within an inch of her kid's life seeing to every need, but when Sweetpea started boiling over at regular intervals I was glued to her and vice-versa. I'm not sure who was more sleep-deprived.
The peak of this pleasant experience came yesterday when she seemed fine enough to forgo her dose of Motrin and we had no sooner settled into a group bed (did I mentioned we were joined at the hip?) for her afternoon nap when I noticed the bed was shaking.
Earthquake! I sat up and looked around. The pottery on the table next to the bed wasn't rattling so it was puzzling. Then I realized that the shaking was coming from the mound next to me. Sweetpea was propped up on a pillow looking at me angelically but she was shivering uncontrollably and her teeth were chattering. "Are you cold?" I asked and when she nodded I pulled the comforter up closer. But the shivering didn't stop and it was then that I realized something was really wrong. I grabbed her and ran to the phone.
When you are panicked you lose your coordination and your IQ all at the same time. I could barely see to phone the doctor and I put it on speaker while I cradled my moaning, shivering daughter against me in a blanket. I stumbled over my words when the pediatrician's office answered the phone.
"What the hell is wrong?" I demanded after explaining what was going on. The doctor, who has dealt with hundreds of panicked parents like me calmly directed me to take her temperature. "But she's freezing!" I yelled into the phone. "She's about to spike a fever," he replied, still staying calm. By now Sweetpea was mottled like a prize steak, purple and red and pink everywhere on her body, including her face. Her hands, legs, arms, and feet were freezing and she was moaning through clenched teeth. "Take her temperature," he repeated sternly. Seeing the digial ear themometer coming at her, Sweetpea twisted her head around as if posessed. She hates the ear thing but it's state-of-the-art and sure beats the rectal thing so I plunged in despite her angished pleas, "No this! No this!" she bleated. I struggled with her for a few moments and finally held her in a secure headlock and took a reading.
"This can't be right," I mumbled and while I tried again the doctor asked me what the temperature was." "104" but she's freezing, I repeated stupidly. I forced her head back again and stuck the ear themometer in again. "104". Then I realized her back and her head were as hot as a baking chicken.
"Give her some Motrin ASAP," said the doctor, "and then put her in a cool bath to get her temperature down." After a few stupid questions that were mostly related to "Will she live?" I got the medicine in her right away and then rushed into the bathroom where I turned on the taps and climbed into the tub. I went in fully clothed but unfortunately for Sweetpea it was necessary that she be naked so as I cradled her in between my arms she floated in the unfriendly water shivering from head to toe, her hands a ghastly shade of red, nails blue, feet jerking. I held her there chest-deep for the required forty-five minutes against my instincts to get her warm, stroking her head with a cool, wet cloth, and crooning to her reassuringly.
This is when you realize just how much you are one with your children, how so very, very much you have come to love them and how vulnerable and trusting they are to you. I was all alone in the house with my daughter, with no-one to share the agonizing fear and the trembling with, all alone with our child's life in my hands and I tried to stay calm as I stroked her and told her that she was safe. She was with mummy and she was going to be okay. And even though she was moaning and shivering she seemed to know this on that deep level that bonds us together, parents and children. She trusted me and stayed in the water without complaint until she started to calm down and I kissed her hair and whispered, "take deep breaths, sweetheart, just relax." And eventually the shivering stopped and the mottling went away and her body transferred enough heat to the tub to warm it up several degrees (scary). She finally slipped back into my chest, her eyes drooping with exhaustion, and I knew she was going to be okay.
Later, when we had dried off and she was wrapped in her fluffy pink bear robe, she clung to me with a new ferocity, staring deep into my eyes, touching my face as if anew.
"My mama," she said, stroking my cheek. "My mama."
Baby, you've left China behind. And we're here for the long haul. You can count on that.
For those parents out there with kids who haven't experienced this, Sweepea and I had a frightening enounter with a fever yesterday. She had been battling a nasty cold or the nameless viral thing that pediatricians refer to when they can't tell you what it is. This one was not of the 24-hour kind: it had settled in for a long stay and took up noisy residence in her lungs. Eventually her good humor disappeared and Sweetpea turned into a snotty, cranky mess, throwing more food than eating it and generally whining her way through interminable 18 hour days before lapsing into a croupy sleep. As miserable as I was (I had a visiting sister who was recuperating from surgery and my husband was away on business), this stage seems like heaven now compared to the spiked fevers she developed a few days into the illness, something new to us (we are neophyte parents after all). Fevers in kids come on fast and they can hover in the low 100s with very little affect, or they can soar up and fry their brains with frightening speed, so the "I walked the floors with you when you were sick" speech our parents gave us has taken on new meaning for me. I'm not a hoverer - a parent who stays within an inch of her kid's life seeing to every need, but when Sweetpea started boiling over at regular intervals I was glued to her and vice-versa. I'm not sure who was more sleep-deprived.
The peak of this pleasant experience came yesterday when she seemed fine enough to forgo her dose of Motrin and we had no sooner settled into a group bed (did I mentioned we were joined at the hip?) for her afternoon nap when I noticed the bed was shaking.
Earthquake! I sat up and looked around. The pottery on the table next to the bed wasn't rattling so it was puzzling. Then I realized that the shaking was coming from the mound next to me. Sweetpea was propped up on a pillow looking at me angelically but she was shivering uncontrollably and her teeth were chattering. "Are you cold?" I asked and when she nodded I pulled the comforter up closer. But the shivering didn't stop and it was then that I realized something was really wrong. I grabbed her and ran to the phone.
When you are panicked you lose your coordination and your IQ all at the same time. I could barely see to phone the doctor and I put it on speaker while I cradled my moaning, shivering daughter against me in a blanket. I stumbled over my words when the pediatrician's office answered the phone.
"What the hell is wrong?" I demanded after explaining what was going on. The doctor, who has dealt with hundreds of panicked parents like me calmly directed me to take her temperature. "But she's freezing!" I yelled into the phone. "She's about to spike a fever," he replied, still staying calm. By now Sweetpea was mottled like a prize steak, purple and red and pink everywhere on her body, including her face. Her hands, legs, arms, and feet were freezing and she was moaning through clenched teeth. "Take her temperature," he repeated sternly. Seeing the digial ear themometer coming at her, Sweetpea twisted her head around as if posessed. She hates the ear thing but it's state-of-the-art and sure beats the rectal thing so I plunged in despite her angished pleas, "No this! No this!" she bleated. I struggled with her for a few moments and finally held her in a secure headlock and took a reading.
"This can't be right," I mumbled and while I tried again the doctor asked me what the temperature was." "104" but she's freezing, I repeated stupidly. I forced her head back again and stuck the ear themometer in again. "104". Then I realized her back and her head were as hot as a baking chicken.
"Give her some Motrin ASAP," said the doctor, "and then put her in a cool bath to get her temperature down." After a few stupid questions that were mostly related to "Will she live?" I got the medicine in her right away and then rushed into the bathroom where I turned on the taps and climbed into the tub. I went in fully clothed but unfortunately for Sweetpea it was necessary that she be naked so as I cradled her in between my arms she floated in the unfriendly water shivering from head to toe, her hands a ghastly shade of red, nails blue, feet jerking. I held her there chest-deep for the required forty-five minutes against my instincts to get her warm, stroking her head with a cool, wet cloth, and crooning to her reassuringly.
This is when you realize just how much you are one with your children, how so very, very much you have come to love them and how vulnerable and trusting they are to you. I was all alone in the house with my daughter, with no-one to share the agonizing fear and the trembling with, all alone with our child's life in my hands and I tried to stay calm as I stroked her and told her that she was safe. She was with mummy and she was going to be okay. And even though she was moaning and shivering she seemed to know this on that deep level that bonds us together, parents and children. She trusted me and stayed in the water without complaint until she started to calm down and I kissed her hair and whispered, "take deep breaths, sweetheart, just relax." And eventually the shivering stopped and the mottling went away and her body transferred enough heat to the tub to warm it up several degrees (scary). She finally slipped back into my chest, her eyes drooping with exhaustion, and I knew she was going to be okay.
Later, when we had dried off and she was wrapped in her fluffy pink bear robe, she clung to me with a new ferocity, staring deep into my eyes, touching my face as if anew.
"My mama," she said, stroking my cheek. "My mama."
Baby, you've left China behind. And we're here for the long haul. You can count on that.
posted by vallie at 3:46 PM
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