Susannah Doyle
Jul 30, 2017 · 1 min read

A poorly 3 year old is no fun


You feel the pain for them. That is what they say. And it is true.

At 9pm last night I shot upstairs to check on my daughter. I had an overwhelming urge to do so for no reason at all. Other than I felt it. I felt unsettled and worried.

She was hot. Red hot. By 5am I had been sick on. Twice. Wiping curdled milk from my face and hair like light rain in order to carry on.

I remembered to look for rashes. RASHES. Glasses on, wild sticky hair pushed back….no rash.

Tonsilitis. If only it were possible to swap with her. She could have my mild fatigue and fantasy of watching Osark all day. I get her heat and upset and confusion. No problem.

It is what parents do. It is why humans survive into adulthood. It is primal.

Few days. Some strawberry flavoured medicine. Sorted.

It is unthinkable to imagine my care, any care, not being enough.

I know the wild sicked -on locks would match my crazed fighty eyes.

I know fight would trump fatigue.

Past that, what I would do?

No idea.

Susannah Doyle

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