And then, pneumonia.

Rudy began running a low-grade fever on Christmas Day, when she woke up miserable, got some acetaminophen, and spent the rest of the night in bed with Todd and me, after some 2 a.m. carrot sticks and toast Todd felt compelled to prepare and eat at the last dizzying height of his scotch-fueled day of celebration.

A few days later, the fever increased and was joined by a rattling, wheezy cough, and then Rudy woke up from her nap sobbing and delirious because her neck and back hurt.  And here's when, after a few days of my non-alarmist let's take some Tylenol and move on (see Rudy's previous undiagnosed illness and Rudy's previous undiagnosed pneumonia), I panicked.  Does she have meningitis?  Is something going on with her kidneys, now that my children are taking yet another medication, the serious-sounding hydrochlorothiazide?  No, I learned, she doesn't.  She has pneumonia, again.  And she's been more whiny and grumpy than usual.  More pathetically sweet and snuggly, too.  And this will make me sound odd, but there's something about the way that a sick and feverish kid smells that makes me feel like a mom.  Because I recognize it, first of all, and because there's something about it that I almost like.  When I'm tucking that Toot in on the couch with some toast and her Lambie, a part of me hopes she remembers things like that when she's older, things like the way her mom took care of her when she was sick.  It would be better than things like the way her mom threw the cup of water in irrational frustration or muttered grumpily and with practiced, rising volume about what is really just a harmless mess in the playroom.  I love you, Rudy!