The Sick-Day Survival Kit: What We Actually Use When the Kids Go Down
- Krizia Tascone-Mihalj
- Oct 31
- 5 min read
Two throat infections in one week. If you’ve ever played “Who’s next?” with daycare bugs, you already know the choreography: one kid goes down, the other watches closely, then—tag—you’re it.
The week it all hit (and how we knew)
It started quietly. Sunday night, Leonardo got unusually cuddly and went to sleep an hour early—a red flag in this house of bedtime negotiators. By Monday morning he had the sniffles. By Monday night he was running hot at 37.6°C; not panic territory, but enough to activate our “Okay, this is a thing” plan. Shower steam, fresh PJs, and the familiar rhythm of alternating paracetamol (Dymadon) and ibuprofen (Nurofen).
Tuesday at 10:30am we were at the GP. We don’t “wait and see”—that’s just not our style. The check confirmed what my gut already knew: throat infection. Antibiotics prescribed, a high-five from our lovely GP, and a joke I should’ve known would boomerang—“See you by Friday with the little one.” Thursday night, Massimo coughed. Friday morning, there we were. They won’t share toys, but germs? Olympic team.
What we watch for (because kids don’t always have the words)
The first sign in our house is always clinginess and lethargy. As adults, we can name the slide into unwell; kids show you with their bodies. Glassy eyes, that clingy-limp cuddle, the way they abandon play halfway through a sentence. Fevers for both boys hovered around 37.5°C at their spikiest and settled towards 36.5°C as meds kicked in. I’m not here to argue thermometers on the internet—just telling you what we saw, and what worked for us.
And yes, we keep them home. If there are sniffles, they’re not going to school or daycare. I know—that’s not always easy or convenient. It’s also the right thing for our kids and everyone else’s.
Why a proper Sick Kit saves your sanity
There is nothing worse than rummaging at midnight while a hot, snotty child wilts on your shoulder. Our Sick Kit lives in a clear caddy in the linen cupboard and moves to our bedroom when someone goes down. It’s boringly practical—that’s why it works.
So here's mine so you can create your own Sick Kit;
The backbone: a forehead thermometer
I bought when I had a newborn because underarms and inner-ear battles at 2am were not the life I wanted. It’s non-contact, fast, and it’s grown with us from baby days to kid years without drama.
The nose situation:
We rotate between Flow and Fess saline sprays (I grab whatever the chemist has), because that multi-direction spray buys you a precious three-second window to actually get it in. I spray, wait a minute or two, then use a nasal aspirator. Yes, I have a manual one. No, I don’t reach for it first. The automatic one is a lifesaver when you’ve got a tiny who breathes like a fridge. Pro tip: do it after a steamy shower and warm the saline—everything moves easier.
Fever + pain:
We stick to liquid paracetamol and liquid ibuprofen (I have prefered brands, but don't feel right to name and shame). Both bottles have those brilliant syringe inserts—no sticky measuring spoons, no guesswork, just skick it in, draw, dose. My boys are passionately Team Orange Flavour; berry/cherry is apparently a personal insult. Once, in a moment of desperation, I bought what was available at the pharmacy. The performance that followed? OSCAR-worthy. The medicine was everywhere except their mouths. Learn from my expensive mistake.
Hydration station:
We live with water bottles within arm’s reach, sick or not. When they’re unwell, we push fluids gently and use Hydralyte sachets (they mix faster than the tablets) or Hydramama if they need a boost. I personally avoid milky foods when they’re snotty (old wives’ tale, maybe), except for the one thing they will drink: a banana smoothie—two bananas, milk, Greek yoghurt, cinnamon, honey. It’s soft, sippable, and gets actual calories into small bodies who’ve lost their appetite.
Steam & air:
On blocked-up nights, we run a humidifier and add Euky Bear sniffly-nose oil. A quick spritz of the room spray makes the whole room feel “clearer,” which might be placebo or might be magic—I’m not asking questions at 1am.
Nice-to-haves that became musts:
Vicks VapoShower melts for a proper steam shower, Vicks Baby Balsam for chests, a cool face washer, lip balm for the cracked “fever lips,” and a small lined bin (because midnight spews love carpets).
Our night routine (a.k.a. less chaos after 7pm)
I learned long ago that the less I have to think at night, the kinder I am the next morning. So we do the same steps, every time:
Steam first. Shower with a Vicks melt. We keep the Dyson Hot+Cool on in winter so nobody shivers mid-change.
PJs are pre-staged before water even runs. Nothing derails bedtime like rummaging for socks while a wet toddler streaks through the hallway.
Saline → wait → aspirate. Then the humidifier goes on with Euky Bear oil.
Meds for comfort (age-appropriate). If morale is low, I’m not above a marshmallow or a teaspoon of Nutella. Judge me when you’ve parented at 2am with three hours’ sleep.
White noise on, spare sheets stacked within arm’s reach, lights out.
Parent tip I swear by:
Mattress protectors live on kids’ beds year-round. Not glamorous. Extremely effective. When sickness hits, they’re the reason you’re changing sheets, not mattresses.
Food & fluids (without turning it into a fight)
We keep normal food in rotation, just smaller, on demand and with a side of parental softness. No “finish your plate.” They nibble, wander off, come back later, nibble again.
That banana smoothie becomes a hero on day two when appetites are nowhere to be found. If all they manage is soup, toast soldiers or plain pasta? Fine. The goal is comfort and hydration, not winning MasterChef: Kids’ Edition.
Clean-up & containment (and the mental reset)
Once the worst is out of their system, it’s sheet change time. PJs and clothes go in a separate wash. I open doors and windows, mop the floors, wipe the benches. Fresh air, fresh linen, fresh energy. I don’t do a ceremonial “back to normal” checklist—we just slide back into routine. School, sport, life.
Build your Sick Kit now (future-you says thanks)
Put this somewhere you can grab at 11:52pm with one eye open:
Forehead thermometer
Nasal saline spray + nasal aspirator (automatic + manual backup)
Liquid paracetamol + liquid ibuprofen
Oral syringes (5–10 mL) + a dose-tracker
Hydration/ Electrolyte sachets
Humidifier + sniffly-nose oil + room spray
Vicks VapoShower melts + Vicks Baby Balsam
Tissues and Wipes
If you’re a checklist person (hi, same), I made a one-page Sick-Kit Checklist — with clickable links — you can print for the linen cupboard or save on your phone. Midnight-proof.
When the house finally quiets, it’s never the kit that makes me exhale—it’s them. The cuddles, the limp little hand finding mine, the way Day Four feels like sunrise. If this week taught me anything, it’s that a plan calms the chaos and love does the rest. Build your kit, trust your gut, and be kind to the version of you who’s up at 2am doing her best.
A gentle note: This is our family’s experience, not medical advice. Always follow the label and your GP’s guidance. Seek urgent care for breathing difficulties, signs of dehydration (dry mouth, fewer wet nappies/wee, no tears), persistent high fever, severe pain, unusual drowsiness, a new rash with fever, or if your gut says something’s not right. Honey is 1+ only. If you use a concentrated ibuprofen product, double-check dosing by age/weight with your pharmacist.
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