Tonight Annika crept down the stairs, one hour after I had finished another chapter in the Nancy Drew we are reading, and 45 minutes after Frankie had stopped pacing around her room while dragging behind her Pup, the stuffed dog with the Finding Nemo scarf wrapped around his neck several times with the loving cruelty of a 3-year-old. ("He needs his exercise!" Frankie insists, when I poke my head in to see how the sleeping is coming along.)
Ever since Annika got to stay up late to watch the Puppy Bowl, she likes to check in every once in a while to make sure she's not missing any adorably fuzzy fun on the secret night-time Grown-Up TV.
When it was clear I wasn't as thrilled as she was about the prospect of several more hours of tumbly puppies, she moved on to another sleep-avoidance tactic.
"My head hurts! I mean ... " she grasped her neck dramatically, "My throat hurts! Maybe, I mean ... it's my forehead!"
Are your eyes rolling? Mine were, too.
But this is Annika we're talking about, so I took her temperature.
Come on, kid. How am I ever supposed to demonstrate my awesome parenting skills, my gentle, but firm insistence that rules are rules are rules, when you have the amazing ability to generate a fever, seemingly at will? It's like some sort of kid super-power. Captain Pyretica!
Sadly, no Puppy Bowl. But Cleo curled up on the sofa with her head in Anni's lap, and Stuart Little was on, starring Dr. House as the earnest father. I couldn't help waiting for him to whip out his cane and smoosh poor Stuart, while dispassionately measuring adorable Jonathan Lipnicki's reaction, in order to assess the degree of the kid's rodent obsession disorder. Then Dr. Foreman would be ordered to sort through the Little's trash, to rule out environmental toxins as the source of an entire family's Doolittlism. Much skull drilling would ensue!
Which is all to say, Annika enjoys her fevers far too much.