Tuesday, I woke up with an article to write, two to edit, boxes to pack, and an eight month old baby with a fever (102.8!). Guess which of those things ended up eating the bulk of the day.
Having never had a baby with a real fever before, I really didn’t know what to do. Nico made the best of it. He tried to play and smile and what not, but everything was in heart-breaking slow motion and usually ended in him bursting into frustrated, painful crying fits. I did what I do best in the face of health crises: drugged the sicky up with Tylenol. However, I couldn’t decide whether to try to keep him warm (I, myself, usually get the chills when I have a bad fever) or cool (the books suggested not to over-bundle a feverish baby), and of course, Nico was no help as he couldn’t tell me what was wrong. Fortunately, for everyone involved, Christian’s company lost power (this has been happening a lot lately), so he was forced to come home early, which meant he got to play superhero and rock-walked Nico from room to room during crying fits until he fell asleep while I googled and generally fretted.
Magically, the next day, aside from a little general crankiness, Nico was back to normal as if nothing had ever happened, with one strange exception: he seems to have no interest in nursing at all anymore. He’ll take formula, and he’s super-gungho over solids, but when it comes to eating, he seems to be done with me. For all of my whining, I kind of miss the few minutes of cuddle time nursing gave us (though my nipples are psyched). Nico’s not so into snuggly stuff generally unless it involves eating said snuggly thing, so now our relationship has evolved strictly into wrestling, hair pulling, block towers, and slimy French kisses.
Next month, he’ll be moving on to college.