Sitting on my lap she
flinches, screams, flails,
away from the touch
of the tip of the thermometer
under her armpit.
Perhaps in her fevered state
the cold metal really does
burn her skin like a thousand
pitchforks sent from hell to torment her.
Or maybe she is be over-reacting.
Watching his father turn towards the bathroom cupboard,
he is overcome with excitement.
He gestures widely and points empathetical.
Bracing himself against the side of the pedestal sink,
he rises up on his tiptoes and titles his head back,
mouth open and tongue out,
to receive the blessed sacrament.
Otherwise know as baby Advil.