Yesterday, Lila thought she'd spice things up for Arabelle's birthday by developing congestion and an accompanying fever. I was never really worried about her, even though she is only a few days more than two weeks old. It's hard to be concerned when the child is still eating, alert, not fussy, and scootching her way across the bed in that way of newborns. You know, no notable movements but somehow they get places. Oh, and she threw in a painfully thought out roll. I felt the need to give her brain a massage after how hard she was concentrating on what she was trying to do. But she managed it. (This is huge to others since she's so little but comes as no surprise to me; she was constantly rolling over in the womb, so it makes sense that she has been trying to do so from day one.)
None of that is to say that I wasn't keeping a mindful eye on her temperature. But seeing as it never strayed more than a degree over normal, I have some internal conflict over actually calling it a fever. Then again, the danger zone is a incredibly closer for a newborn than the older kid's. Each time I used that thermometer a part of me expected to announce a hurried field trip to the ER.
At one point I started getting a little concerned as she became quite fussy and uninterested in nursing. But the very moment I thought about packing up to the hospital, this overwhelming conversation took place:
Y: Jesus is here, Mom.
M: Yes, He is. He lives in our hearts when we're His disciples.
Y: No, Mom. He's here. Outside our hearts too.
Y: You need to pray for Lila to get better now.
I don't know how anyone could not pray for her after that, after he said those words with that impossible authority in his voice. The fever practically disappeared for two hours and only made a very pitiful attempt at a comeback. I don't know for certain if it was related to my prayer. I don't think it matters. At any rate, that isn't the part that gives me a sensation similar to goose bumps when I remember it.