Twice now he’s got us in the last six months. Twice he’s woken up at two in the morning shivering like a shitting greyhound and crying like it’s the end of days. Twice we’ve then called NHS 24 to be then told to rush in to A&E to be seen by a doctor, with the little drama queen here doing his best ‘woe is me’ impression of a rag doll with half the stuffing knocked out.
Plus he had a temperature of 40°, and since Roobs wouldn’t let me poach a couple of eggs on his forehead it was a speedy drive into Aberdeen Royal Infirmary to see what was going on.
Here’s where he catches us out. The nano-second a doctor gets within ten paces of him, he’s Captain Charisma and full of beans. To see him ham it up to the overworked GP, you would think there’d never been a damn thing wrong with him. Then we’ve got to sit there like two shattered and neurotic parents while the GP side-eyes us thinking we’re unduly panicking.
Apart from his temperature being a bit high the Doc gave him some Calpol and got him to hang around the waiting room for a half hour, stripped to his vest and running around like an urchin. I’m sure the vending machine got a few high fives, and some poor drunk man who had fallen asleep on nearby benches got a rude awakening when he opened his eyes to see a wild haired toddler grinning at him from three inches away.
So here we are. It’s the middle of the day now and the boy is perfectly fine. We’ve both had about four hours sleep each and look like a pair of burst arseholes, but at least little man is perfectly fine and busy practicing his best WWE moves on his dad’s head.
Next time his temperature hits the roof like that he’s getting cannonballed out into the snow for the night.