I asked on Facebook the other night for people to finish this sentence:
Croup is…
There was an assortment of answers, with the majority - in short, responding that croup is poop.
It totally is.
Tiny went to bed on Wednesday feeling a bit under the weather, a sore throat, a sniffly nose, but in good spirits. She came into our bed in the middle of the night and got in between us. I felt her cheek and she had a good old-fashioned fever sizzling up inside of her. I took her temp and it was around 40.
We wound up later in the night in the steam room, aka the bathroom, where all good croup activities take you.
Matt wound up sleeping in Tiny's room and she slept with me where I could keep a wet flannel on her head and keep an eye on her. And that's how it's been for the past three days, and how I am guessing tonight is going to pan out. You can of course probably detect my excitement levels charting off the richter scale.
Croup is an arsehole.
It's stressful, scary, and Tiny keeps getting panicky because she couldn't breathe. Fair play.
I remember watching 'Anne of Green Gables' when Minnie May has the croup, and Anne Shirley comes to the rescue by puncturing the child's throat. Seriously dudes, croup is not to be messed with.
Over the years we've had many trips to ER due to the Doctor being afflicted with it at least a couple of times every year when he was small. I can vouch for it, it always sucks.
For the last few nights we've had broken nights sleeps. Well me mainly because Matt would sleep through a lion eating his head off. Me? I wake at the sound of a piece of paper floating to the floor. Tiny's been my bed buddy, and by now, we're kind of getting sick of each other.
We sit in the steamy bathroom until she can bare it no more (which is about 2-3 minutes after we walk in).
I'm tired. She's tired.
So croup, this is a message to you, you suck. Move along because I am sick of you. And so is Tiny.
