“I not a Pooh-bear. I a Punkin’ Bird.”
         -The Girl (age 3)

The Girl popped a fever this morning. Poor kid. She and I have been fighting what I’ve affectionately termed “Venusian Death Cold” for the past week or so.  I seem to be on the upswing of it now. It appears that she is having a relapse.  At least it seems fairly mild. Touch of fever, some extra nose-goo. She says her tum is upset as well – probably due to all the sinus drainage. Of course, in spite of the vague nausea she immediately asked for something to eat¹.

She’s downstairs, nomming the plain rice I made her.  Advil and decongestant on board. Watching Warehouse 13, like you do.

I hate when she is sick.

Oh, not because she is a bad patient. She really isn’t. Never has been. Even as a tiny tot, she was pretty compliant about medicine and rest and drinking fluids and such. I just despise seeing my bouncy, kinetic Girl squished into the couch, unable to do much more than watch TV and cough.

Over the years, one of the ways I could tell if The Girl was coming down with something was a bout of lethargy. She would come to wherever I was, press her wee hot feet into me and just… flatten into a Girl-pancake.  It was one the most heartrending things to see as her Mom. She felt awful and apparently the make-it-better magic wand department had failed to send out anything to my address.

Nowadays, she pretty much takes care of her ownself, thank you very much. She got herself downstairs, made her own nest on the couch and settled in – a grim little soldier in the guerrilla warfare against the germs²  invading her body.

Of course, my Punky-bird has always had her own mind about things.

¹ – We used to call her “The Baby That Ate Tokyo.”
² – . I would ninja star any germs into fleeing, if I could.