“Mommy, my head hurts. Right here,” she says, pointing to a spot in the center of her forehead. I quickly think about possible triggers: hot day, dehydration, allergy season to beat the band.
“Abby do you feel like your nose is stuffy?”
She gives a contemplative sniff. “No, mommy.”
“Do you feel like you need to cough?”
“No, mommy. But my head hurts, right here.”
“Abby, how does the sun feel when it’s near your eyes?” I’m checking for photophobia, dizziness, other migraine indicators.
Another pause. “Da sun feels hot, mommy.”
“But it doesn’t hurt your eyes?”
She’s obviously trying to figure out the right answer here. “I don’t know mommy. But my head hurts bad.”
“It’s ok, baby. Drink your juicebox, we’ll get you some water when we get home. If it still hurts later I’ll give you some Tylenol.”
She thinks this over. We have a few more “It hurts” on the ride home, but turning off the radio helps. We arrive home and she puts her miserable head on Daddy’s lap while I fetch an icepack and a glass of water.
5 minutes with the icepack and Abby looks at me. “My head feels all better, Mommy. We play outside now? I want to throw da ball for Simmy.”
So obviously not a migraine this time. And I’m pretty sure she wasn’t faking in the car. But somehow, I just *know* that she will be a migraine kid. Just like her Mommy.
