The plague, the plague!

Before you send the health authorities over to forcefully quarantine our house, it MIGHT not be the ACTUAL plague. It might just be the flu. But it has hit Finny hard. Last night I was downstairs enriching my mind watching Studio 60 (apparently I am the only one that does...) when I heard a delusional little voice protesting, "Me not a baby. Not a baby. Me not..." I went upstairs to investigate and found Finny thrashing around on the floor, every single hair on her head stuck to her face with sweat. Her fever was over 103. Remember when you were a little kid and you felt sick or had a midnight confession to make? You go downstairs to another world...a tidier, quieter grown-up world. So I brought Finny down into my peaceful calm. We poured her some Gatorade, with a straw of course. Made her a nest on the couch. Mopped her wet brow and talked crazy late night talk. It was kind of fun.

I placed a quick call to Mr. First-Aid (Eric) who was at work, just to make sure that I shouldn't be rushing her to the hospital. You always have that vision in your head...you know, of the inquest after everything goes wrong: "You are telling me, Ms. McKnight, that you TRULY thought GATORADE would cure meningitis? Well, you can think over the wisdom of that course of action IN PRISON..."

Eventually we all went up to my bed where Lukey and I slept in Finny's salty puddle o' sweat. She appears to be on the mend today. As I type, she is using the toilet roll holder (you know the thing with the spring that goes through the roll?) to stir pretend soup. So I guess the next illness will be the bacterial infection that she gets from touching that disgusting thing.