Speak of the Devil

So I tried to talk to my mother on the phone this afternoon. It came out sort of like this:

M: Hello?

F: [hissing noises, cough, squeeeeek! Cough. Whispering: hello!]

M: I can't hear you.

F: [hissing, squeaking, coughing, whispering: I can't talk.]

etc. Mother told me about her class today, that she was off to the movies with Patty and Lauren, and that she bought Iain some wipes and bath stuff for our weekend getaway. Then we had to hang up, because all I could say back was: eeeee...sssss....hhhhh and other pointless noises.

But one thing she asked was whether Iain was sick. Nope! I whispered.

.

Right. That was dumb-stupid, as I heard an astronomer say on Stephen Colbert. I didn't knock on wood or anything.

.

So, of course, Iain woke up from his nap with a fever (102.9). We called the nursing service. Or, rather, Charles called them since we didn't think they would understand my random noises or that seal barking sound I can make. They said that we should give him Tylenol (so handy having a former chemist for a spouse), watch him, keep taking his temp, and take him to a clinic tomorrow if he still had a fever.

.

No problemo. We Tylenol'ed him, fed him, etc. But his mood deteriorated like a cheap sponge.

.

Dinner was a nightmare of recrimination ("That's not bananas!! It's green beans with a little banana mixed in!! What do you take me for?"), my pea-baby-food production caused a huge wailing objection to the Cuisinart mini-prep noise, and the bedtime ritual was complicated by one poop and two throwups. On the plus side, his temperature at 6 was 100.4, which is fine.

.

On the negative side, he screamed his head off from about 5:30 until 7, with intermittent breaks to check that we were utterly traumatized. Eventually, he rolled over and went to sleep at 7:09.

Let's hope he wakes tomorrow with no fever.

.

In any case, I've learned my lesson. In future, the answer to any question about his health will be "No comment."