Fever

12 pounds, 10 ounces; 24 1/4 inches

And a fever. 102.4
Your very first fever. And I am a wreck. A whale full of worry. It is different, this worry, than all the other worries. It is as though I have put on a new garment. The worry just sits heavy on me, wet-sweater like, and does not leave.

You are sleeping in your crib right now. All I can think, every other minute, is that maybe your fever has worsened, maybe you are having epileptic fits, maybe you have died. And so every fifteen minutes I go and check on you.

I walk into the room and over to the side of your crib. I look at your bright red cheeks where the fever likes to settle. I look at your blue sleeper and hold myself very still to see if I can see your chest rising and falling. Usually I can't. So then I look at your throat, where a tiny patch of soft skin flutters with your heartbeat. I feel relieved. For about ten seconds. Then I look at your cheeks again and try to determine whether they have grown more flushed since the last time I checked on you.

The fever could be a result of the vaccinations. Or it could be a little virus you picked up AT THE CLINIC yesterday. If the on call doctor would call me back, then maybe I would know.

I'm sorry I don't have much more to give you today, Thisbe. It's hard to be creative or interesting or coherent. I am too worried. I will probably play Tetris for the next six hours. Because I can rotate the little blocks and worry at the same time.

Note: In the picture above, you do not have a fever. But that's a little bit what you look like today. Except your cheeks are five shades redder.