I used to say I prefer a raging fever to the debilitating and hugely irritating common cold.
But I dont anymore.
Especially not when it concerns little T.
For with her, the fever comes, as it must do with most children, in the middle of the night. Always. And always always horribly high. And often, even the prescribed dosage of paediatric paracetemol doesnt ease the heat or discomfort or pain.
So I and my mum end up sitting next to her, dabbing her hot head with room temperature water while worrying whether the coolness of the water may cause a worsening of her sore throat and cold.
When she is awakened by the need to cough, she angrily pushes away our hands, protesting that she doesnt like the feeling of a wet rag on her head. But we ignore that, wait for her to sleep and then start again.
Often, while her head is hot and she is moaning with the discomfort of the fever, the cold and body pain that stupid viruses bring, her hands and feet are icy cold.
So we take turns to cover them with a bedsheet until little T pushes it away and we wait for her to settle down and repeat the same motions.
While doing this last night I was thinking how necessary a removal of your self is to raising a new young life.
And how this reveals itself so clearly during illness.
It isn’t necessarily the end of your self but it is certainly a postponement and removal.
And I can say almost quite certainly that none of us who enter parenthood had the faintest idea that this is what it is about. In a pretty fundamental way.
Not only is it not for the faint hearted. But also that this is probably one of the best kept secrets of all times.