I wish I had something as interesting as vaccines to talk about. Unfortunately, I'm feeling rather drained and uncreative. You see, it appears one of my (strategically vaccinated) children has yet another lung infection.

My regular readership (and anyone who's read my current Facebook status) will know I'm talking about the middle gremlin, my exception to the rule, my most interesting character, Mr. Gutsy.

With claws in, hidden fangs, and a droopy tail, Gutsy came home from school yesterday completely spent. He started to whine the minute he walked through the door, moaning and sighing as he peeled off his outerwear. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my maternal instincts went into high gear. I knew beyond a doubt that trouble was afoot.

Gutsy got sick on the weekend with a benign little virus brought home by Geekster and spread to all of us to some minor extent. However, the middle Grem developed a fever for about three days. No worries, though. Mama Maven doesn't panic about stuff like fevers anymore. Those new-mom-freaking-out-about-every-little-thing days are long behind me. I'm a seasoned gremlin tamer now. I don't generally bat a beautiful eye until there's either a lot of blood on the floor or a really gross rash. As predicted, the fever went away by Monday afternoon and the boy went back into education mode on Tuesday morning.

By last night the fever returned with a vengeance. Damnit.

Today, he started with the cough. Damnit, damnit, damnit!

You know, the cough. The awful, terrible, dangerous cough that turns my blood cold. The one that signals pneumonia, which infests his lungs like hippies at a tie-dye convention.

Gutsy has had the cough five times now, if I counted correctly. And every time I wonder if this is going to be the one that lands him on a respirator. I know that sounds over-dramatic, and it is, because inside I'm a drama whore. But looking beyond my shortcomings, pneumonia isn't exactly life-friendly, most likely due to it affecting that ever important breathing requirement of living persons.

Couple that with Gutsy's asthma - he can thank me and my side of the family for that little gift - and we have a situation that sends even this relatively calm mother into a state of panic. When I hear the cough my legs want to give in, and I want to start crying right there. I tend to hold back the tears and only break down later into a blubbering sack of uselessness, and instead immediately put on my brave mother face and march us off to the clinic or hospital.

The routine is practiced when we get there: This is Gutsy. He's six. He has asthma. He is prone to pneumonia. He started a cold about five days ago. He started getting better, then developed a fever and is now tired, short of breath and complains of pain when he coughs. Gutsy, can you please show the doctor where it hurts? I feel like an actress doing a well-rehearsed monologue, except that I leave with a prescription or an x-ray form instead of some roses (I'd rather the roses. Why don't I ever get damn roses? Although two years ago I got a laptop for Valentine's Day, which somewhat trumps little red flowers, I think)

When pneumonia hospitalized five-year-old Gutsy last spring I just about lost my mind. I couldn't sleep, I barely ate, I paced the house, I ran Spawnling and Intrepid here and there for babysitting so I could visit Gutsy and Geekster in the isolation room, and basically lived on coffee and other caffeine-containing beverages.

In hindsight, that was a pretty sweet weight loss regimen. Nice.

Wait. Did I just say that out loud?

No. No I didn't. I typed it. That's slightly less evil, right?

Anyway, the thing is, that was the first time I truly believed I might lose him. And I realize there are more life-threatening things out there, like anaphylactic allergies (onion pizza, anyone?) and cancer, and meningitis, and a host of other nasty stuff. But when he's in your arms and can't catch his breath and his fever is 105 and he's trying to cry out for you to help him, that's a moment you'll never forget. And when your husband calls you at 5AM and says 'they have to keep him and he's on two different i.v. antibiotics and he can't even lift his head off the pillow, he's so weak', you want to drop everything and run to him. But your baby is asleep beside you and you have another who has to get off to school in three hours, and you don't know what the next phone call will bring, and a little, dark part of you wonders if holding him on the couch last night will be the last time you'll ever hold him. Just a little part, a little irrational one, but that's a fear that lives for a long, long time.

When I heard the cough today my heart stopped dead. It's a good thing it started again or I don't think there'd be a blog post today which would totally ruin my once-a-day posting rule, on account of death.

I ran him to the clinic. I dropped everything. I left Spawnling with Geekster and we went. The entire time he said 'I want daddy to take me, I want daddy, I want daddy...' and he cried and cried about it, of course, because Mommy is chopped liver even when he's sick, apparently. Not this time, Gutsy. No way, no how. Like me or not, I am the one taking you to the doctor's. Like me or not, I'm going to be the one who's with you this time, because last time my life stopped when you were gone and I missed you more than anything, and I need to be there for you in a way you might never understand. And you need me there, too, even if you don't feel that way right now.

Once he got over his separation issues, he realized how much I rock. The clinic is above a grocery store, so I bought him a treat and some Crayola craft stuff to keep him busy while we waited over two hours to be seen. We played eye spy, we laughed, we took silly cell phone pictures, we cuddled. I totally worked it and I think he almost liked me as much as his dad by the time we got home.

Wow! I'm almost as awesome as Daddy and all it took was saving his life and buying his love? Why haven't I gone this route before now?

The doctor told me that if we had waited until tomorrow he would probably have full-blown pneumonia, but that it appears to be just the start of it now. I'm just glad my mommy instincts started roaring and I got him in there before the really bad stuff happened. And, in the end, I've concluded that I don't care whether or not I'm the favourite. I'm his mom, he needs me, and I really need him, horns and claws, favouritism and all.