Sick days

You know what’s fun? Arguing with a sick 3-year-old whether or not you have pancakes.
The other night, Parker woke up around 10 and we had this conversation:
PARKER: I want pancakes.
ME: We don’t have any more pancakes.
PARKER: YES...WE...DO!!!
ME: No, you ate the last of them this morning.
PARKER: NO...I...DIDN’T!!!
ME: Yes you did.
PARKER: I want pancakes.
Repeat 8 billion times. Guess what? We still have no pancakes.
I picked up The Dude and immediately found out why he was in such a disagreeable mood. You would be, too, if your forehead were hot enough to cook grilled cheese sandwiches on.
I always hate it when my kids get fevers, which I suppose goes without saying, lest I be labeled the cruelest dad ever. But it also really worries me because on the rare occasions when I get a fever, I do it in spectacular fashion. I don’t ever get a nice, low-grade 100ish fever that brings discomfort. I opt for the 140-degree face meltings that, at the same time, somehow convinces your body that you are immersed in a snow bank. So in addition to the searing pain in my eyes, I have shivering and teeth chattering. I highly recommend you try it, assuming you hate your life and embrace suffering.
So whenever my kids start getting that warm feeling, I am afraid their temperature is going to try and overload the thermometer. I could tell by Parker’s head he was trying to be like good ol’ dad.
When we went to take his temperature, I asked him to lift up his shirt. He told me he did not want to have his temperature taken under his arm. I told him he would not like the other option. He looked at me for a minute, perhaps had a flashback from when he was a baby, and reluctantly lifted his arm. 103.
That night was a fun night. It has been a while since our kids were babies, so we forgot the joy of sleepless nights. We gave him some medicine to help break the fever, and we apparently washed it down with Jolt cola and a couple of double shot espressos.
First, he decided he was ready to go bed, but he would do it under a table for his trains. “It will be a tent,” he said exceptionally quickly. Fine, whatever. He grabbed a pillow and a blanket and headed to his sleeping quarters. “Come with me, Daddy!!!!” he said even faster. Daddy does not fit under train tables.
Not that that mattered, since after about three minutes, he was on to his next project. At one point, I made the mistake of using the bathroom around midnight. When I returned to the hallway, I saw him standing there, pushing his half-asleep sister down the hall. She looked at me and said, “Daddy, will you please make him stop?” I distracted him (”Hey, something shiny!!”) and she slipped back to her room.
Around 1:30, I threw in the towel. Parker decided he wanted to play in the playroom (can’t remember what; he could have opted for woodworking and I would have conceded at that point). That’s when I made the command decision that was, at the same time, a colossally stupid decision.
I came into the bedroom where my wife was lying (not sleeping, since she has this crazy habit of staying awake when her children are up trying to convert tables into tents, etc.) and said, “I’m done. He’s yours. I have to work tomorrow.” I then hopped in bed and shut my eyes, ready for a deep sleep.
Truth be told, I kept my eyes shut as tightly as possible, because I did not want to see what could possibly be about to happen, such as the mattress being folded up tightly and forced out a window.
My wife decided to tend to other pressing matters, such as seeing why our son was suddenly screaming his ABCs.
So around 5:30 that morning, I was woken up, and not with the kindest of tones, I might add. “He’s asleep,” said my wife, who for SOME reason was taking a rather curt tone with me. She then told me that he had continued to be wild. “At 4 a.m., he decided to do a puppet show,” she said. A few seconds later, I learned that this was not, in fact, funny.
Although Parker had a bit of a rough day the next day, we finally got him back on a normal schedule the next night, and after a few days he was on the mend. Turns out he had the flu, which he was kind enough to share with his sister. She, on the other hand, was kind enough to respond to it by simply curling up on the couch to watch movies. There would be no puppet shows.
After a few days, when it appeared the kids were on the mend and my wife was amenable to speaking to me again, I suggested that perhaps my delivery several nights before was not the most tactful, and certainly did not accurately reflect what I was trying to say. There were far better ways to pass the sick-kid baton, and I did not opt for any of those. For that, I assured her, I was sorry. The look on her face told me she was still a wee bit angry, so I said the one thing that would make it all better: “Honey, how about a puppet show?”