We had our first parental emergency room run the other night. One minute Poppet was bouncing around the house like the Energiser Bunny; the next, she was curled up on Hubby’s lap looking quite pitiful. I finished feeding Pixie, then Hubby and I swopped kids. He went off to change Pixie while I tried to figure out what was ailing Poppet.
“Are you sore?” I asked. “Not sore,” she replied.” And on it went – she insisted she wasn’t sick, nothing was sore or itchy, she wasn’t tired and she didn’t want to see a doctor. This despite the fever and funky breath. I would have waited until the next day to take her to the GP, but when she tried to stand up she collapsed back onto the couch in tears. Cue parental panic.
So after Pixie’s second round of milk, we bundled everyone into the car and drove off to the emergency room. Hubby and I avoided any mention of “hospital” or “doctor” but by the time we were sitting in the waiting room, the jig was up. “Where’s the doctor?” Poppet asked. Fortunately she’d already forgotten she hadn’t wanted to see one.
Pixie decided she wanted in on the action too, so while Hubby was filling in forms, I had a crying baby in one arm and a sick toddler on my lap. Lots of sympathetic glances from the other people in the room, but no offers of help.
The doctor told us Poppet had a throat infection and prescribed some antibiotics, sending us off with a wave and a look that said, “Paranoid parents.”