Still coughing her little guts out, the Little Madam had also been wheezing quite loudly all day today, so I was glad that we were already scheduled for a follow-up appointment with our GP this afternoon. A couple of times now, in the early hours of the morning, I've jerked awake because I thought I heard her wheezing after a bout of coughing. Then I'm paralysed with indecision - do I go check on her and risk waking up an already wakeful baby or do a stay in bed and risk finding a blue baby in the morning? I'm starting to get better at sneaking into her room.
Later today, the doctor listened to TLM's chest and back before prescribing a session on the nebuliser, followed by a dose of Ventolin. I had to sing several rounds of Ten Green Bottles again (supplemented by several verses of Old MacDonald, for variety) because she sure doesn't like have a rubber mask clamped to her face.
The good news was that this took away all the wheezing, and therefore it's unlikely that she had bronchiolitis. The bad news was that it's highly likely that we have produced a little asthmatic. And I can only blame myself because it's in my genes, not the boy's.
Of all the ways I can be a bad mother (e.g. I cook badly, clean infrequently, and often resent getting up in the middle of the night just 'cos the little one needs a cuddle), passing on a genetic predisposition for asthma is one I didn't need to add to the list.