Strep Test
On parenthood.
I did not feel good. In front of the mirror—phone in hand, flashlight on—I stuck out my tongue and lit up the inside of my mouth.
We were all sitting on the floor at the end of the day. Does it look gross to you? I asked, opening wide. The baby wiped his nose on my pants. C.’s eyes narrowed.
Oh god, it’s horrible, he said.
Off to the doctor, then. At some point on the drive to the urgent care center, I realized I was still happily listening to Raffi, which struck me as funny—I don’t often feel I’m different, as a parent, but, there it is. And the germs that I cannot stop getting.
I think I have strep. The nurse scribbled some notes down on a blue Post-it in her hand. Scratchy, yeah. Fever, no. The swab was as bad as I remembered. I’m sorry, I said, still gagging a bit.
She told me the test came back negative, and when I asked what it might be instead, she laughed. Your kid brings home lots of different things. Ah, right. Well, then.
I’d just missed the baby’s bedtime, but I listened to his songs on the car ride home.