That’s about when the drugs kicked in and the Boy was ready to go. We packed up snacks, water and ibuprofen. We instituted a strict hand-washing policy. If it went all pear-shaped, we warned the small people, we would simply leave the park.
(On that last bit, I tried to not think about how freaking expensive it was just to get into the park and how leaving would feel like a waste of cash. While I can be sensible, the thought was there.)
We made it much longer than I would have anticipated and were driven back to the hotel by the wind chill (the northern winter weather followed us south), not by exhaustion.
Most of our trip wasn’t about amusement parks, however, and we had a lovely time with family. We kept up the hand washing. The Boy lounged a lot and never really got any sicker or any more well. January golf was played.
When we arrived at the airport for our return flight, the Boy seemed peppy, despite not having had any fever-reducing medicine. I felt his head. No fever.
Near as I can figure, it’s Florida that makes him sick. Or vacations. Or maybe he found a way to fake it, just to irritate his sister.
Adrienne Martini is a freelance writer, instructor at the State University College at Oneonta, mom to Maddy and Cory, wife to Scott, and author of “Sweater Quest.” Her columns can be found at www.thedailystar.com/parentingimperfect.