Still upset about yesterday’s parent-teaacher interaction, and upset and dumbfounded by last night’s parent-child discussion, I stumble out of bed, pour coffee, inhale it, pour another and am then vaguely able to cope with the morning.
Well, the next 23 minutes at the very least. Most. At the very most.
Monkey Boy seems to have a rash near his mouth. Great. Here I was thinking he’d missed the whole hand, foot and mouth thing. If that’s even what we had. His hands and feet look ok, the rash is all around his mouth.
I sip more coffee, contemplate the delay in catching the virus, ponder what else it may be and consider, at a remote possibilty, the Peruvian lamb he had last night at a friend’s house. Only because it was most likely to contain a foostuff that he hadn’t yet eaten in his life. It was Peruvian lamb, for fucks sake! Unless it was made from minced beef and fell on a week I was actually inspired and able to think, feel and function, chances are he’d never eaten it before.
As I said. Remote. Or, it could have been any number of things. I removed myself from dealing with the family and googled to see if I could find pics of hand, foot and mouth and what it looked like around the mouth. I know have horrible images seared into my brain of what it looks like, worst case scenario, in the mouth. But not around.
Ring the doctor at the first opportunity, get an appointment for the middle of the day and am horribly torn between the despair of keeping him home, knowing he is not sick and not knowing if he’s contagious or not, and the joy of only having to prepare one lunch.
Oh, two. Chippie needs one for day care. Handballed to Grumpy Pants, as I’m sure I could have looked at more pictures on Google. Couldn’t I?
Choose to keep him home, despite massive amounts of work. The bonus of Monkey