When I picked up Harrison from the sitter’s this afternoon, he seemed fine. I saw him through the glass on the front door, sitting on a riding toy. He saw me, too, and lit up like Christmas. “Mommy! MY Mommy!” he hollered, practically leaping into my arms as Nana opened the door.
He wanted to “drive,” so I let him sit behind the steering wheel for a few minutes before luring him into his carseat with a Tootsie pop I’d pilfered from the candy basket at my therapist’s office. He was perfectly fine on the ride home, nothing out of the ordinary.
Matt wanted to put H to bed early tonight because of the time change, and I was amenable. So, I cooked dinner. H was clingy, as usual, but I put him to work transferring a half-cup of lentils between two bowls. After he was done with that task, he then swept them up very carefully, one by one, until Matt got home from work.
The two of them went to play in H’s room until dinner was ready. It wasn’t until H sat down in front of his beloved chicken hot dogs that it became apparent that something was wrong. He was whining and moaning, crying to get out of his chair after just a few bites of hot dog. He wanted to sit in my “yap.” “Sit in yap, Mommy. Up.” He refused applesauce, grapes, crackers, his beloved yogurt. He draped himself over my shoulder and moaned. He hasn’t done that since he was about three months old and delirious with a UTI.
I took him back to our bedroom to lie down on the bed. He could barely keep his eyes open. We watched The Simpsons (“No food for you grad students until you grade 3,000 papers!”). I took his temperature: 101.1 (add a degree for under-the-arm readings). It was 6:20, an hour after I’d picked him up from the sitter’s. After his bath, he lay on the bed snuggled up to me, drunkenly singing his “ABCDs” while Matt read some stories. He was asleep within minutes of me putting him to bed.
My poor baby. It’s been two years since he was this sick, and I’m a little freaked out. Also, this would happen the week I have about eleventy jillion deadlines.