I often wonder how much of Today Alexis will remember Tomorrow. From the giggles to the tears to everything in between, I have to wonder what is making a lasting impression.

One of the first things I was afraid she would remember, even if only on a subconscious level, was the time she spent in the emergency room when she was three months old. A bad reaction to vaccinations coupled with a very poorly timed cold landed the poor kid front and center of an army of doctors and nurses whose primary task was to get an IV into her arm and a urine sample from the place urine comes from. It. was. awful. She screamed. She cried. She howled. It took several tries for the medical staff to accomplish their goals, and each and every second of it was the very definition of a nightmare.

I would not have been surprised if some part of her brain had grabbed hold of the image of doctors and needles and decided they were Evil. Phobias have to start somewhere, right? It would be completely understandable if she had come out of that mess with one heck of a phobia. I know *I* did.

The whole big mess was prominent in my mind today as I sat at home with a feverish and fatigued 3-year old version of that kid. She was very nearly as miserable as she was the day she found herself in the ER, the only difference being that she now has the power of words to keep her from getting dehydrated. I hounded her about drinking some water, and she did a good job of telling me where to shove that cup as she sucked down the liquid. I decided to overlook the sass since she was, you know, actually listening to what I was saying.

Her fever was such where a trip to the pediatrician's office was sort of an option, not necessarily a must. Given that there have been several confirmed cases of H1N1 at her preschool, I was leaning towards STOP THINKING AND GO, WE HAVE INSURANCE, MORON. A few phone calls later, I was back to THERE ARE MORE GERMS THERE THAN HERE, MORON (you gotta love a pediatrician who tells it like it is). Alexis was fully aware of who I was talking to each of those calls, and she felt the need to weigh in.

"Am I going to the doctor?" she asked. Repeatedly.

Several times I replied, "Maybe." Then came a dose of Motrin and another phone call and the answer changed. "No, I think you're feeling a little bit better," I told her.

"No, I not," she replied. "I want to go to the doctor."

"We'll see, but we're not going right now," I told her.

She turned her head so that her eyes could meet mine in a stare-off, thought for a second, and said, "But I sick."

Her face hovered inches from mine as she waited for my reaction. Then, as if to accentuate her point, she mustered the best fake cough she could.

*cough*

"See, I sick!"

I guess I can kick Fear of Doctors off that list of things to worry about.