On our second to last day in Puerto Rico I noticed a blister on Margot’s collarbone.
“The seat belt probably rubbed on her while she was sleeping in the car.” That’s what everyone said.
But, I knew. Something wasn’t right.
The next day, another blister, on her hand.
“She’s been crawling a lot and it’s really hot… It’s nothing…” That’s what everyone said.
But, I knew. I knew.
Margot slept the entire flight home. I was grateful, to be sure, but… that sure was a sleepy baby.
Then I called her doctor. And texted a picture of her blisters (of which there were now MANY).
“Bring her in right away.” That’s the text I got back.
And I knew, when they put us in the room with the secret escape door so we wouldn’t have to walk through the waiting room again. The room with the big poster of skin lesions on the back of the door.
“Yep. That’s chicken pox.” That’s what the RN said after looking at just one of Margot’s blisters.
That’s how we found out , for sure, that we had a chicken baby.
Cue all the concerned questions about vaccinations.
“No, Margot did not have a chicken pox shot.” “Nope, they don’t do it until after 12 months…” “No, we wouldn’t have gotten one anyway.”
I’m glad she got them when she did, because the biggest effect it had on her daily routine was making her sleep allllllll the time. No itching. No scratching. No complaining. Just lots of my sweet, sleepy girl.