The Un-Resolution

Henry has had recurring high fevers for about the last six weeks to two months. No other symptoms, one minute he will be fine, the next he is roasting hot and lethargic, and then out for the count for the next two to five days, then totally fine again. He's missed school several times and I've only taken him to the doctor about half the times that he's had the fever just because it will go away before I get in for an appointment.

He was prone to ear infections when he was an infant and has always been anemic, but this fever thing is weird. Last week I took him in, though, and the pediatrician didn't seem too concerned, even when I pointed out that this pattern has been going on for a while now, and that his brothers, who are around him constantly have not been sick along with him. She literally gave me the condescending you're a worry-wart "he's just more susceptible to little viruses than most. Give him Motrin and call if it hasn't gone away by the end of the week."

Well, the fever hadn't gone away by Saturday (Day Five of 102 or higher) so David took him in since I am paranoid about being considered paranoid hypochondriac mom. Suddenly, with a dad saying that he was concerned, the doctor felt it was indeed necessary to be concerned and she ordered blood tests and all. We're still waiting on the results and I'm hoping that everything will be fine, but it's been really wearing.

Basically, Henry has been whining/crying/yelling every. single. word. he says. from the time he wakes up until the time he goes to sleep every. single. day. since sometime before Thanksgiving. I am not even exaggerating. And he has taken being contrary to a whole new level - whatever I say to him is either an impossible solution or else he will insist that the complete opposite is true, to the tune of a complete floor sprawling tantrum including kicking, slapping and falling all over the place until he hurts himself. That is, when he's not completely lethargic and turns his whole little body to the back of the couch and goes to sleep.

I like to think I am a pretty patient and forbearing Mom, fairly empathetic and reasonably sensitive and kind. I am sad that he doesn't feel well and we don't know how to help. The combination of my worry and his behavior (not to mention a baby that I can't get on a reasonable sleep routine, my own insomnia, a five-year-old who needs to be conducting science experiments every minute, holiday busy-ness, school, and laundry, laundry, laundry always laundry) means I am very nearly to the end of my quickly fraying rope.

Let's just say that right now was not the best time to decide to give up coca-cola once and for all or to throw a diet/fitness regime into the mix.

Better to be fat and mostly sane than svelt, but rocking and bashing my head against a brick wall, right?