Fever

J is not well. Why is it that as a parent, as soon as your little one is ill, all common sense and pragmatism deserts you completely? I know full well that his temperature is just because he had his jabs on Friday and that he's just building up his immune system. However, I can't help that little voice telling me it's something else, something more serious, something that will strike as soon as I leave the room and I'll come back to a lifeless body... no, I can't even think that. For a split second every time I go into his quiet room I panic - and then he moves or cries or breathes, perfectly fine, and I wryly smile at how neurotic I am.

So yesterday, with temperature soaring and a projectile vomit all over the kitchen, I find myself ringing NHS Direct out of sheer desperation. I just needed someone with some authority to tell me he was fine. Confidence, it would seem, is a preference only for those without children.

It's not easy, being entirely responsible for a whole life other than your own.

And then there's the parent etiquette thing. I took J to his Monday morning class today at the library, and everyone was very sympathetic. But could I detect a glint of blame in some of the mothers' eyes? Was I imagining the unspoken comments - was it irresponsible of me to take him out with other children, just in case it's something contagious?

There is a strange dichotomy amongst parents. Out loud, they say things like "the second Blake gets chicken pox, let me know, we'll be straight round" But underneath what they're thinking is "If you let your disease-ridden offspring anywhere near my precious darling I'll skin you alive." It's a jungle out there. You spend your life hacking through the pleasantries to the primal, fearsomely protective animal behind, the one that would do just about anything for their own child. Sure, they all sympathise, but are they really just wondering how you could be so stupid as to expose their children to whatever hideous ailment your own poor baby has. Even when you tell them it's not contagious, they don't believe you. I am meant to be going to a friend's this afternoon, and she texted last night having noticed my FB status about J not being well. Was it genuine concern for J that prompted the text? Or was she checking whether it was something likely to be passed on to her son as well?

Perhaps I should stop imagining this subtext, these unspoken atrocities, and give my fellow mums a little more credit. But then there's that nagging little voice again. The same one that assures me that the looks I'm getting as I walk down the street are just as malicious as I think, that those kids over there really are laughing at me, that those women really are criticising every badly dressed, overweight step I take. That voice tells me it's true - because we are just judging others on the uncharitable thoughts we all have as well. Some of us are better at smothering them than others - but that doesn't mean they're not there.