To Er or not to Er?

After we got back from the street fair yesterday, Elijah was completely out of sorts. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t nap. Wouldn’t watch Sesame Street. I thought, and announced loudly, that Eli was being a jerk and just wanted to ruin my Sunday. Diana thought that something else was wrong. She was, as usual, right.

‘Round about 11pm, Eli woke up screaming bloody murder. It was no nightmare. Di couldn’t get him to settle down. So she called me in to his room to administer the…ugh…rectal thermometer.

Hold on a second. Can I have a word with any inventors out there reading the blog? Do you think its possible to invent a baby thermometer that doesn’t involve intense embarrassment and emotional trauma for all involved? Consider me your first customer.

OK, back to the story. The thermometer beeped. It read 109. Diana shouted, “It’s 109!” and her eyes got a very fight or flight look in them. Now, unless my baby boy had suddenly acquired super powers, it was physically impossible for him to have a 109 temp. I was with him all day and he was never exposed to Gama rays or bitten by a radioactive spider.

But try telling that to a very sick baby and a very worried mother.

We checked his bottom again and the temp was a more human 103. But still way too hot for our tastes. Di called the emergency pediatrician, who confirmed that the only way he could have a 109 temp was if he were a member of The Fantastic Four. But then she gave us a choice. Come in to the office first thing in the morning or go immediately to the ER.

My bed and pillow were calling from the other room, “Go tomorrow! It’s comfy in here. And your stuffed animals miss you…”

But we opted for the ER, figuring no one was getting sleep anyway. Grover held the door open with a look that said, “Don’t bring that human puppy back unless it stops screaming.”

We arrived at the Evanston ER a few minutes later. The Sunday night ER team was a pretty far cry from the A-Team. At no point did anyone actually check to see why there was a burning hot baby in the waiting room. The debate of whose turn it was for a cigarette break consumed them.

Coincidentally, the dose of baby Motrin kicked in on Eli and he cooled off significantly and transformed from zombie to squirrel. We left the ER, thanking them for their attention and went home.

Eli never actually went to sleep, but he seemed out of the woods. Today, his doctor said it was a virus and probably not a precursor to the ability to fly or control the weather.