Fever: 2 Children: 0

Meelie is pulling through it and seems to be on the upswing. Chickie, on the other hand, has been taken into a black hole of fevers (nothing alarmingly high), sore throats and headaches. In it's powerful, sharp taloned grip, she alternately sleeps or lies on the couch, listless, like a fish, who is on its last fin (that was bad wasn't it?). Ok, she has one nasty virus.

Like I said, I'm not ready to run her to the ER, it's pretty much your normal "I'm going to make you so miserable" virus. But it gets worse. And it's bad. And it's heartbreaking. More for her, than me. Much, much more.

Tonight she was scheduled to be in a dance production for "Starry Nights" down on the waterfront. She had a solo, a duet and a couple of trios, to name a few. They have been working hard on this moment. After the spring recital, the instructor chooses some of the kids from the more advanced classes to participate. This was her first year. Guess what? She is sick and won't be able to perform.

Let me back up here just a bit though. I told her that if she felt she could do it, I would let her. My how she did rally. We alternated Tylenoll and Ibuprofen. We took lukewarm baths. We slept, and then we slept some more. We drank down all the fluids that we could possibly stand. She wanted this so very, very bad. And I was inclined to let her try. This was, after all, her time. At about 4:30 she got up to do her hair, and get her stuff together. After no less than 5 minutes in the bathroom, I checked on her and she was on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

I sat down beside her and she immediately buried her face in my chest, quickly saturating the front of it with her tears.

Chickie: I just can't!
Me: I know.
Chickie: I just feel so awful!
Me: I know you do.
Chickie: I want to go so bad.
Me: I understand.
Chickie: Momma, I just can't.
Me: It's going to be ok honey, Miss Dance Instructor will understand.
Chickie: What if Miss Dance Instructor never lets me dance for her again?
Me: I don't think that's going to be a problem.
Chickie: Do you promise?
Me: Cross my heart. I will call her to let her know.
Chickie: Mom?
Me: Hmmm?
Chickie: Will you tell her I am so, so, sorry and tell her not to hate me?
Me: I will and it will be all right and you can call her next week and tell her so yourself.

For the record? I just took a flashlight and looked in the back of her throat. It looks like I may just be taking her into urgent care tomorrow after all. I'm thinking strep throat, if the white spots are any indication.