After three weeks of on-again-off-again high fevers, achey-ness, headaches, and other fun, Adelaide is finally feeling better.
The fact that it took me three weeks to take her the doctor's office should probably cause me more mother-guilt, but the fact is, it takes a whole heck of a lot more to induce said mother-guilt than it did just two short years ago. Whether this is because I've realized the best mothers I know also screw up constantly or because I've just become astonishingly good at shrugging my shoulders, I don't know. What I do know is that when I realized Adelaide had been sick for three full weeks, I decided that, sure, I guess, I can take our only daughter in to the see a medical professional. You know, for a lark.
The diagnosis was one bacterial infection that piggy-backed on top of the initial virus. Antibiotic prescribed, prescription filled and picked up (say it with me, now: $4 Rx's are the BEST), and 48 hours later, our daughter stopped her near constant litany of tears and moaning and I don't FEEL well's (what's that, you say? Sounds like I should have taken her in earlier? Please see the above paragraph and go ahead and imagine me shrugging my shoulders. Also building character in our offspring and stuff), is back to constant chatter and charming interrogations.
One of the (many) reasons I didn't take her to the doc sooner is that, see, we were just there a couple weeks ago. No, it wasn't for Adelaide, and no, it wasn't because someone was sick, but really, I had just been there. No need to go back for quite some time. (Please don't try to make sense of this. There is none to be made.) That initial trip was because Caedmon had gotten another giant splinter in the sole of his foot, and because this time he was gracious enough to do it on a weekday during our doctor's office's normal operating hours, I was able to take him in to have a medical professional perform the extraction, rather than me rooting around in his skin for an hour and a half while Derek held him down. This way was much better, as it only took ten sweaty minutes of flesh-digging by the PA while the nurse held his leg and I held the rest of him (don't kid yourself, 4-year-olds are strong). (Also, sorry to Derek's mom for the words "flesh-digging," I can just see her blanching now, as opposed to my mother, who is probably reading this going, "Mmm, flesh-digging, my favorite." And now I've managed to further gross Becky out by typing "flesh-digging" four times and made my very nice, excellent nurse-mother sound like Nurse Ratched does Night of the Living Dead. That one's my bad.)
(Oh, but a quick aside to Becky and anyone else squeamish who might ever be tempted to randomly scroll through the photos on my mom's phone or camera, hoping for cute grandchild photos: Just Say No. Well, unless you have a jonesing for pus and boils and inflamed skin and other head-scratchers more suited for a Victorian Oddities Museum. Or if you're one of those people who continues to harbor the notion that school nurses sit in their offices reading books until some poor poppet stops by with an owie. Then BY ALL MEANS, look at her phone. Also ask her for the story about that time a kid sliced their finger off in a locker. It's a doozy.)
Aaaanyway. We're all more or less healthy now, although both the boys are now overdue for their yearly check-ups. Whatever, shrugging my shoulders, I'll get to it when I get to it. Probably.