We're sick again, or at least the Bunster is. He's got a fever and is a lot less energetic than usual, but no symptoms other than that yet. He was fine this morning, feisty and full of energy. He refused to eat any breakfast and went to school with six ounces of milk and four dried cranberries in his tummy, but this is not unusual for him. His appetite veers from small to non-existent pretty regularly. So I'm not even considering possible illness, since he seems just fine.
Two hour later, I get The Call from the Assistant Director.
I scoot over there and the poor little Bunster is huddled forlornly in an office chair with his head draped over the arm, too listless to lift his head. If he were 12, it could have been a stellar performance, but with pre-schoolers, it's always the real thing, alas.
So we come home, he drinks a little more milk and refuses all offers of food. I take his temperature, which is 101, and give him some tylenol. And then he goes right to bed, without complaint. He's been asleep for about two hours now.
With so little to go on, I'm warring between optimism and despair. "Maybe it's just a bug and he'll be fine by tomorrow!" Or "Maybe he's really sick and will miss the Girl Next Door's party next weekend and I won't be able to do any work all week."
I pay some bills, go online to kill my pointless thinking and immediately find a blog talking about whether to send sick kids to school anyway and how hard it is to be a working parent. Which is true, but not what I want to be reading right now.