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I went to pick up the Owl from daycare the other day, and instead of meeting me with a big grin and a delighted chortle, he looked at me sadly and just signed for “milk” (which also means “boob lady”).

The daycare lady said she had almost called me at work, because he had a fever. She couldn’t find her thermometer anywhere (even though she’s an RN and swears she owns three – but who CAN find their thermometer when they need it?) but she was sure he had a high fever. She had given him some tylenol and was bathing his head with a damp paper towel when I arrived.

She strongly suggested that we take him to the doctor, so we did just that.

After two hours of waiting at the walk-in clinic (I swear, the hospital would have seen a baby with a fever sooner), we were blithely told that it was “just teething”, but to give him more Tylenol because his temperature was THIRTY NINE POINT FREAKING FIVE (that’s a little over 103 F, to you Americams).

Okay.

I knew he was teething.

And it’s true that when the doctor shone a light in his mouth I could see not one but TWO molars trying to come through, in addition to the lower front tooth that is cutting through (no strawberry milk situation this time, at least!).

But that high a fever? Really?

So we carted our whiny, clingy, hot little Owl home and dosed him up good. We used his fever as an excuse to not go to work and stayed home with him, dosing him every 4 hours dutifully.

I guess it was teething, because it’s certainly gone now.

But jeez. You’d think the pain of cutting molars would be bad enough, without the universe throwing a fever like that at the poor little dude.

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