It's Just a Virus

Exhibit A: Grace is a happy girl.

90% of the time, Grace is a remarkably happy girl. From the moment she wakes up, to her dazzling us at breakfast with her ability to shove an entire carton of blueberries in her mouth, to her tottering here and there, amazed by the tiniest piece of paper she found on the floor. When Grace is sad, it's usually because she's tired, teething, or sick.

On Saturday, we had a small crisis. Grace had a fever. A pretty high one--104. She was drinking water like she had just gone 9 rounds in the ring--think Joe Frazier--complete with spitting. We thought something was wrong so we called the doctor. I adore our doctor. Many of you have heard me sing the praises of the man who has come to our rescue on many occasions. He's kind. He's gentle. And he's funny. All very important criteria in a good pediatrician. We first met our doctor a few days after Grace was born. I was nursing and Grace wasn't pooping--this can be a very bad thing. So, in a panic, I called the doctor. He called back and was calm, supportive, and funny. He assured me that Grace would one day poop--probably within 24 hours. He also said it would a terrible one--we should brace ourselves--and that one day I would laugh about this. Today I do. Because that night Grace had a poop the size of Texas. I was so exited I awoke my husband from a sound sleep to joyfully tell him. This is what being a mother is like.

So I prayed to the gods of on call doctors that we would pull him and not Dr. Crankypants. Dr. Crankypants is just that-- cranky. I held my breath when the phone rang and then I heard it-- Dr. Crankypants's voice. I was so bummed. He assured me Grace was fine but he does this thing that always really bothers me. He tells me "Grace needs lots of mommy time." A fairly innocuous statement but it always rubs me the wrong way. I feel like telling him, "Dr. Crankypants--how about we level the playing field a little bit and you can call me Dr. Janofsky. That's right. I can be condescending too. Now Dr. Crankypants, I have a husband who is just as good as I am in caring for our daughter. How about suggesting some mommy and daddy time. Great. Thanks." But I don't say it 1) Because I'm quite possibly over reacting 2) I'm quite possibly over reacting.

The weekend was ok with Grace moving back and forth between charming and screeching. Sunday afternoon was a rough one so we headed out on a 68 mile drive to get the kid to sleep. Yup--68 miles. Did you happen to notice the price of gas lately? Did I mention we drive a fairly sizeable SUV? The drive included a tour of the entire region and was accented by my husband singing delightful children's songs. I knew he couldn't last forever. Who could? Things got bad when he slipped in a rather unorthodox lyric into Old MacDonald. Something about a gun. . .

So Grace woke up today with a rash all over her torso. I called the office and we went right in and saw our favorite doctor. "It's just a virus. She'll be fine." I knew she was ok. Did she need to go to the doctors? Probably not. Did I know she would be ok? Deep down, yes. But I like to hear it from the expert. Despite my previous rant, I am not a doctor of medical knowledge and beyond impressing people at cocktail parties with stories of how medicine used to be practiced, I have no real knowledge of pediatric medicine (beyond George Clooney on ER).

Last week I was talking to a neighbor whose daughter just went away to college. She's having a terrible time. And I mean terrible. On this day, Grace was a crank because her teeth hurt. I mentioned that tylenol usually helped. My neighbor wistfully said she wished she could give her daughter some tylenol and make it all go away. This stuff scares me. I mean, this is big time parenting. Not a rash, not a fever. The pediatrician can't help you with this one. My husband's dad said something similar recently. "When does this get easier dad?" Dad: "I'll let you know." This helps me to put a rash and how I reacted into perspective. I guess it's what all good parents do. You worry. You love. You worry some more. And you love even harder. No matter how big or small your babies are you just want to make them all better.