Fighting

This evening we went to a park where they had a stage and live ballroom dancing. We spread out the big pink blanket, ate Chinese leftovers that we reheated just before leaving the house, and watched our silly daughter instead of the dancers.

Now we're home and Lyla appears to have a fever. It's a tiny one, 101.2 degrees via the armpit. (I know rectal is what the doctors prefer, but good grief: "Oh, you don't feel well? Let's stick this in your butt." I mean really.)

So being superior parents, we put the warm child in the Exersaucer so we could both get on our respective computers and scour the internet for whether we should panic. Finding only reassurance, we put Lyla to bed, and she did not object. Our little girl is fighting an infection. She's so bad-ass.