Today I found out my four-year-old son has chicken pox. Or, as James would have it, “chicken pops”.
The bizarre thing is that we had literally no idea, and only found out when he was getting undressed to get in the bath. He’d been running a temperature since the previous night, but that was the only indication anything was wrong. My wife instantly realised it was chicken pox, but we rang the emergency out-of-hours surgery to be sure. They called back and asked a ton of questions and it seemed Mel’s initial diagnosis was spot-on.
Apparently now the spots have emerged he’s past the contagious stage, but that means that he’s had it for around five days or so. “Has he been lethargic at all recently?” we were asked. No. “Has he seemed at all unwell?” No.
No, our resilient boy has just been getting on with having chicken pops (as it is now to be officially renamed in our house) for the best part of a week without making a single complaint. As today wore on, we noticed a number of spots in his hairline which weren’t evident this morning. Amazingly, he’s resisted all urges to scratch, though whether that will continue is uncertain. He did seem a little more tired than usual towards the end of the day, but besides that, if we’d somehow missed all the spots covering his body, we’d have no idea anything was wrong.
All of which makes me insanely proud of my tough little cookie of a son.