My husband is ill. He was travelling abroad last week, had a cold before he left, then returned with jet lag and immediately set off on his annual army lads get together weekend of too much alcohol. To be fair to him, he didn't look great before setting off and it wasn't one of those things he could blow off. He has returned from his weekend of merriment very, very poorly. I think he might actually, genuinely be ill this time. And it's not surprising. Curing of colds with several thousand gallons of lager isn't what the best GPs prescribe. But there you go.
Anyway, while he was off trying to drown his influenza bugs in neat spirits, I was left with the kids ... again...following a week of me being on my own with them while he was away. During the course of this week I've had long romantic interludes with the bog thanks to a delightful belly coupled with the constant nagging cloud of poorliness hovering over my head. But let's count the number of hours I spent swooning on the Chaise Longue of Death (or CLD as Katyboo calls it). Erm..uh...hmm...nope. Nada. Not one. Not because I am trying to impersonate Joan of Arc in my martyrdom. But because if I did lie down on the CLD, I'd have approximately 30 seconds before I had two small boys thinking I make a very good trampoline. And shortly after that I'd be getting snacks or wiping bottoms or trying to find grey clothes to turn son 1 into a mouse for the school play.
Like most mothers, being sick isn't an option. You just have to get on with it. This leads men to believe that we are never as poorly as they get when they're ill.
So here he is. At home. Off work. On the sofa. Sighing. Coughing. Sniffing. Sighing some more just in case you missed the first volley of sighs. Meanwhile, I've spent my day doing my usual charging about - making packed lunches, getting kids dressed and off to school, working like a demon all day, collecting children, playing with children, making supper, washing up after supper, doing laundry - all while feeling absolutely wretched, coughing and sniffing. There is nothing I'd like to do more than to crawl into bed, but I still have more work to do, kids to bath and get into bed, more laundry, more christmas cards to write and a teetering pile of ironing that needs seeing to. I might bin the last two come to think of it.
The problem with man flu is this: Whenever men get sick, they ALWAYS make out as though they're on death's door so when they really are sick, you don't quite believe them. It's the whole Peter and the Wolf malarkey isn't it? What's more, because as a woman, you NEVER get the benefit of being really sick or get to swan about on the CLD, you can't help but begrudge their ability to focus solely on their poorliness and nothing else. This results in one thing: Lack of Sympathy.
I have to dig deep, really deep to be sympathetic to my sick husband. And the poor man probably is really ill and in need of some sympathy. But I'm hard pressed to find even a sprinkling of compassion. Men need sympathy while lying on the CLD with man flu. If they don't get it, they sigh more and more loudly until you take notice and ask if they perhaps need something - like a slap around the head.
I sometimes wish I could become a sick man just once to know what it feels like. Perhaps men genuinely do get more sick than women. Perhaps they are less able to cope with pain, which is probably why women get to have the babies (men would get an epidural the minute they saw the little blue line appear on the pregnancy test). Perhaps it's their inability to multi-task that makes getting sick a sole occupation. Whatever it is, I would pay handsomely for someone to find a cure.
Showing posts with label sick children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sick children. Show all posts
Monday, 8 December 2008
Friday, 21 November 2008
Sick children have their merits
I have been an absentee blogger. That's because much like the sun in Britain, I've been weak and feeble. I was struck down by the myriad of germs that seem to be lurking in dark corners of our house, pouncing on victims as they unwittingly pass by. Not only have I been poorly, but son 2's poorliness which started on 3 November has continued unabated. This has meant having him at home all...the....time. Despite relying heavily on the babysitting powers of Cbeebies, it's still had an impact on the volume of work I can get through. So blogging got dropped in favour of earning a living, sneezing violently, mopping fevered brows and generally feeling sorry for myself.
But yesterday, he got prescribed antibiotics. Halleluja! I was convinced he had a urinary tract infection and so spent the afternoon crawling around after him trying to get him to pee into a cup, which I could then present to the doctor. He - for the first time in his three year long life - displayed excellent bladder control and refused to pee, despite me running taps and making pssspsspass noises. Despite having no pee sample, the doctor agreed that he'd been poorly long enough and whatever the cause, antibiotics would probably cure it.
It has. Thanks to the wonders of penicillin, the child is back to his normal trying self after a mere 4 spoonfuls. The lethargic, quiet, undemanding child has gone only to be replaced with a hooligan who bounces off the sofas and feeds his peas into his space rocket before sending the whole lot blasting into orbit and landing on the family room rug in a modern art mushy pea tribute.
Now it's supposedly bedtime. But instead of collapsing into a snotty heap in his bed, with me tenderly stroking his forehead and making maternal clucking noises, he is bounding about the place yelling 'I'M NOT TIRED!'. He's just called me into our bedroom (because he apparently can't sleep in the dark so must sleep in our room with the blackpool illuminations going on) saying he just needs me for a second. I refused this request several times but eventually - just to shut him up - went in.
'Yes?' I asked.
'Umm, mummy, umm, umm, umm,' he said.
'So actually there isn't anything in particular, is there?' said I.
'THERE IS, mummy, THERE IS!'
'Well what is it? Because it's bedtime and you should be sleeping,' I say rather fractiously.
'Umm, umm, giggle, umm, umm,' he says not very intelligently.
'Go to sleep. Don't make me come back in here,' I warn.
I turn to leave. He starts yelling. He follows me into the study. In the nano second he is there he pulls three books off the shelf leaving them in a messy pile on the floor before berating me with: 'I did have a real question. You were silly. You shouldn't have left.'
'Well what was your real question?'
'Umm, umm, umm...'
That's when he was frogmarched back to bed.
He's just returned and stood outside my study door yelling: 'I DID HAVE SOMEFINK ACTUALLY REALLY TO TELL YOU, I DID. COME HERE ATMEDIATELY!'
i said: 'So tell me.'
He said: 'I want to tell you in my bed.'
So I promised that I'd be there in two minutes (hoping that in two minutes he will have fallen asleep) but this kid has staying power. Who else is sick for the whole sodding month of November?
But this is why I haven't been blogging. Because I get one sentence in and I am summoned once more to the all powerful children gods who insist on their crusts being cut off, their sheets being straightened, their bums being wiped and their gogos being found.
My two minutes are up. I'm being called. Must go.
But yesterday, he got prescribed antibiotics. Halleluja! I was convinced he had a urinary tract infection and so spent the afternoon crawling around after him trying to get him to pee into a cup, which I could then present to the doctor. He - for the first time in his three year long life - displayed excellent bladder control and refused to pee, despite me running taps and making pssspsspass noises. Despite having no pee sample, the doctor agreed that he'd been poorly long enough and whatever the cause, antibiotics would probably cure it.
It has. Thanks to the wonders of penicillin, the child is back to his normal trying self after a mere 4 spoonfuls. The lethargic, quiet, undemanding child has gone only to be replaced with a hooligan who bounces off the sofas and feeds his peas into his space rocket before sending the whole lot blasting into orbit and landing on the family room rug in a modern art mushy pea tribute.
Now it's supposedly bedtime. But instead of collapsing into a snotty heap in his bed, with me tenderly stroking his forehead and making maternal clucking noises, he is bounding about the place yelling 'I'M NOT TIRED!'. He's just called me into our bedroom (because he apparently can't sleep in the dark so must sleep in our room with the blackpool illuminations going on) saying he just needs me for a second. I refused this request several times but eventually - just to shut him up - went in.
'Yes?' I asked.
'Umm, mummy, umm, umm, umm,' he said.
'So actually there isn't anything in particular, is there?' said I.
'THERE IS, mummy, THERE IS!'
'Well what is it? Because it's bedtime and you should be sleeping,' I say rather fractiously.
'Umm, umm, giggle, umm, umm,' he says not very intelligently.
'Go to sleep. Don't make me come back in here,' I warn.
I turn to leave. He starts yelling. He follows me into the study. In the nano second he is there he pulls three books off the shelf leaving them in a messy pile on the floor before berating me with: 'I did have a real question. You were silly. You shouldn't have left.'
'Well what was your real question?'
'Umm, umm, umm...'
That's when he was frogmarched back to bed.
He's just returned and stood outside my study door yelling: 'I DID HAVE SOMEFINK ACTUALLY REALLY TO TELL YOU, I DID. COME HERE ATMEDIATELY!'
i said: 'So tell me.'
He said: 'I want to tell you in my bed.'
So I promised that I'd be there in two minutes (hoping that in two minutes he will have fallen asleep) but this kid has staying power. Who else is sick for the whole sodding month of November?
But this is why I haven't been blogging. Because I get one sentence in and I am summoned once more to the all powerful children gods who insist on their crusts being cut off, their sheets being straightened, their bums being wiped and their gogos being found.
My two minutes are up. I'm being called. Must go.
Sunday, 16 November 2008
In which the promise of Sundays is rained out
It's Sunday. This day held so much promise. It was a blank canvas upon which we could paint any number of happy family memories. But son 2 is sick again (now that son 1 is on the mend). I'm definitely poorly but ignoring it (I don't really get a choice in the matter). And our options as to what we could do were always going to be limited.
So without much of a concrete plan but feeling we really ought to do something, we decided to try to teach son 1 how to ride his bike without stabilisers. Given his temperament this was never going to be an easy task. And it wasn't. He refused to leave the house. Then once we finally got him to the park, he refused to get on the bike. Then he refused to put on the helmet. We eventually got to the point where he was riding his bike with me running behind him, holding on, putting my back out, coughing up my poorly lungs and breathing out through my ears. My son felt it was far more interesting to watch the passers-by than the path ahead so kept overbalancing. I never even got close to taking my hands off him. Then husband had a turn. Pretty much the same success rate, except that he - who is supposedly far fitter and healthier than I at the moment - also returned clutching his back and breathing through his ears.
We decided to break for lunch (i.e. let aging parents sit down and breathe). As son 2 had been largely ignored during all of the bike riding he was allowed to choose our lunch destination. We suggested pizza. He said: 'chicken and chips'. Which means KFC. He's only been there once but it obviously made a big impression on him as he's been nagging to go back ever since. So in we went along with other fraught families, people with weight issues and many people who looked as though they'd just got in from a heavy night out.
It was vile. Son 1 pronounced: 'this food is revolting. And it's not healthy. (well done son). I don't EVER want to come back here again.' My husband was very quick to agree, given that he's lived on a diet of salads and cereal for the better part of a year and the shock of vast quantities of fat and salt wasn't sitting well with his digestive system. Husband said: 'Everything's so full of FAT.' 'Well yes,' I said. 'There might be a clue in the name Kentucky FRIED chicken.' He harumphed. We left, all feeling a bit sick.
We were busy tossing a coin as to who was going to run behind boy on bike trying not to bring up our deep fried nastiness when a large cloud decided to loiter over Newbury, turning the day into a grey, wet, mizzle-tastic misery. We convinced the boys that it would move on and tried to pass the time browsing the toys in Woolworths because that's as exciting as you get on Newbury High Street. We're trying to get an idea as to what Father Christmas can get for them, but they just want everything. If you ask them to narrow it down to one or two things, then nothing's good enough to make the list. Personally I don't want anymore plastic crap in the house so don't feel like getting anything. But that would be cruel (yet cost effective).
So having pushed every button on every mutant alien, lightsabre, combat vehicle and rescue chopper we headed outdoors again in the hope that we could continue the bike riding experiment. But the cloud had decided that Newbury was rather a nice place to empty itself on. And so we came home. Husband seems thrilled at the idea of lying on the sofa watching a kids cartoon. I am less ecstatic. For almost a month now we've had someone poorly. We've had TV on 24/7. My heady is foggy from radiators and the melodic strains of cbeebies. We are in dire need of fresh air.
I don't want to be indoors. I want to be having a good long stomp across the fields but given that I'm not altogether well and that it is very wet out there, I'm not sure it's a cunning plan. And so I'm here, typing this. Debating whether to plan my Christmas lunch menu now so that I can get my order in with Ocado, and thus secure a good delivery slot before they're all gone. But even for me that seems a bit anal.
On the subject of Christmas, I am pleased to report that I did 80% of my Christmas shopping this weekend - half of which came from two stores, the rest done online. I was almost masculine in my shop, choose and leave approach. It was the scorched earth policy of Christmas shopping. I've bought my Christmas cards, have my paper and tags and could probably spend the afternoon wrapping gifts to post to the far corners of the earth. It's just not really what I had in mind for today.
I think I might go put my wellies on after all and turn my mild, irritating chest cold into flaming influenza and be done with it. I'll write again from my sickbed.
So without much of a concrete plan but feeling we really ought to do something, we decided to try to teach son 1 how to ride his bike without stabilisers. Given his temperament this was never going to be an easy task. And it wasn't. He refused to leave the house. Then once we finally got him to the park, he refused to get on the bike. Then he refused to put on the helmet. We eventually got to the point where he was riding his bike with me running behind him, holding on, putting my back out, coughing up my poorly lungs and breathing out through my ears. My son felt it was far more interesting to watch the passers-by than the path ahead so kept overbalancing. I never even got close to taking my hands off him. Then husband had a turn. Pretty much the same success rate, except that he - who is supposedly far fitter and healthier than I at the moment - also returned clutching his back and breathing through his ears.
We decided to break for lunch (i.e. let aging parents sit down and breathe). As son 2 had been largely ignored during all of the bike riding he was allowed to choose our lunch destination. We suggested pizza. He said: 'chicken and chips'. Which means KFC. He's only been there once but it obviously made a big impression on him as he's been nagging to go back ever since. So in we went along with other fraught families, people with weight issues and many people who looked as though they'd just got in from a heavy night out.
It was vile. Son 1 pronounced: 'this food is revolting. And it's not healthy. (well done son). I don't EVER want to come back here again.' My husband was very quick to agree, given that he's lived on a diet of salads and cereal for the better part of a year and the shock of vast quantities of fat and salt wasn't sitting well with his digestive system. Husband said: 'Everything's so full of FAT.' 'Well yes,' I said. 'There might be a clue in the name Kentucky FRIED chicken.' He harumphed. We left, all feeling a bit sick.
We were busy tossing a coin as to who was going to run behind boy on bike trying not to bring up our deep fried nastiness when a large cloud decided to loiter over Newbury, turning the day into a grey, wet, mizzle-tastic misery. We convinced the boys that it would move on and tried to pass the time browsing the toys in Woolworths because that's as exciting as you get on Newbury High Street. We're trying to get an idea as to what Father Christmas can get for them, but they just want everything. If you ask them to narrow it down to one or two things, then nothing's good enough to make the list. Personally I don't want anymore plastic crap in the house so don't feel like getting anything. But that would be cruel (yet cost effective).
So having pushed every button on every mutant alien, lightsabre, combat vehicle and rescue chopper we headed outdoors again in the hope that we could continue the bike riding experiment. But the cloud had decided that Newbury was rather a nice place to empty itself on. And so we came home. Husband seems thrilled at the idea of lying on the sofa watching a kids cartoon. I am less ecstatic. For almost a month now we've had someone poorly. We've had TV on 24/7. My heady is foggy from radiators and the melodic strains of cbeebies. We are in dire need of fresh air.
I don't want to be indoors. I want to be having a good long stomp across the fields but given that I'm not altogether well and that it is very wet out there, I'm not sure it's a cunning plan. And so I'm here, typing this. Debating whether to plan my Christmas lunch menu now so that I can get my order in with Ocado, and thus secure a good delivery slot before they're all gone. But even for me that seems a bit anal.
On the subject of Christmas, I am pleased to report that I did 80% of my Christmas shopping this weekend - half of which came from two stores, the rest done online. I was almost masculine in my shop, choose and leave approach. It was the scorched earth policy of Christmas shopping. I've bought my Christmas cards, have my paper and tags and could probably spend the afternoon wrapping gifts to post to the far corners of the earth. It's just not really what I had in mind for today.
I think I might go put my wellies on after all and turn my mild, irritating chest cold into flaming influenza and be done with it. I'll write again from my sickbed.
Friday, 14 November 2008
End of week energy depletion
I have started this blog post many times and just keep deleting what I type. Because quite frankly I am bored of writing about how my children are driving me mad. So I'm fairly certain you all must be bored of reading about it. These last three weeks have been hard, hard work. First half term. Then child 2 sick. Then child 1 sick. Now both in recovery phase which is worse than both of them being sick together. And now I am feeling poorly but have had an immensely busy work time over the last three days with no chance for a rest. All I want to do is cuddle up on the sofa with a bottle of wine and stay that way all weekend (although I might need my wine stocks to be replenished).
But husband has had a very busy, difficult week having to lay off people. So he is just as pooped. And unless we can magic a nanny or a granny out of thin air, our well laid plans of remaining horizontal on the sofa all weekend are going to come to nothing. Instead we'll break up fights, play snakes and ladders, make food that is pronounced disgusting and ignored, get some food shopping and do chores. The weather is pants. And life looks bleak. There are times that I envy our childless friends.
I'm tired. Can you tell?
This weekend I do also have to do something about Christmas. The last posting day for the rest of the world which is where my family lives, is 4 Dec. And so far I've bought nil presents. I have written a list (checked it twice just to make sure who's been naughty or nice) and so far it's looking pretty dispiritingly long. Obviously everyone has been good this year. There are so many people to buy for. So many presents to think of. So much international postage to pay. Am thinking camels, goats and other charity-related gifts might be the way to go. Feed the world, make it a better place, save on shopping hours and postage costs. Not to mention saving the environment by not flying parcels around the globe and not generating more packaging waste. Its all good. Spirit of giving and peace on earth and all that. But it's not quite the same as opening something shiny, is it?
So that's my big goal for the weekend. Although I'm going to have to give myself a serious motivational talk between now and tomorrow if I hope to get my bum off the sofa at all.
Right I'm off to summon up my last ounce of energy to get the kids bathed and into bed. Dishes be damned. Then I have a date with the remote control, sofa and my chilly friend chardonnay.
But husband has had a very busy, difficult week having to lay off people. So he is just as pooped. And unless we can magic a nanny or a granny out of thin air, our well laid plans of remaining horizontal on the sofa all weekend are going to come to nothing. Instead we'll break up fights, play snakes and ladders, make food that is pronounced disgusting and ignored, get some food shopping and do chores. The weather is pants. And life looks bleak. There are times that I envy our childless friends.
I'm tired. Can you tell?
This weekend I do also have to do something about Christmas. The last posting day for the rest of the world which is where my family lives, is 4 Dec. And so far I've bought nil presents. I have written a list (checked it twice just to make sure who's been naughty or nice) and so far it's looking pretty dispiritingly long. Obviously everyone has been good this year. There are so many people to buy for. So many presents to think of. So much international postage to pay. Am thinking camels, goats and other charity-related gifts might be the way to go. Feed the world, make it a better place, save on shopping hours and postage costs. Not to mention saving the environment by not flying parcels around the globe and not generating more packaging waste. Its all good. Spirit of giving and peace on earth and all that. But it's not quite the same as opening something shiny, is it?
So that's my big goal for the weekend. Although I'm going to have to give myself a serious motivational talk between now and tomorrow if I hope to get my bum off the sofa at all.
Right I'm off to summon up my last ounce of energy to get the kids bathed and into bed. Dishes be damned. Then I have a date with the remote control, sofa and my chilly friend chardonnay.
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
Snorting valium
So seriously, are those mothers who NEVER lose their cool and who always remain calm, reasonable and unflappable secretly snorting valium from the dashboard of their people carriers? Do they spend their spare time doing yoga, thai chi and meditation in order to chill out? Are they simply blessed with angelic children who never do anything worth getting riled about? I'm beginning to think so.
Today my children have taken my patience and hit it out of the park, scoring a home run on the driving their mother demeted scale. It's all part of the illness recovery period. Son 1 is still ill (officially). He had a slight temperature this morning and still wasn't eating so I felt it was best that he stayed off school. Son 2 is on the mend but irritable and used to getting his own way. This morning I told son 1 that he wasn't going to go to school, but could stay at home and watch TV and eat snacks. I would have thought any normal kid would have been jumping through hoops to get this. But no, not our contrary fairy.
He immediately began to wail loudly about wanting to go to school. At the exact same time, son 2 started wailing that he didn't want to go to pre-school, he wanted to stay at home and have what his big brother was being offered. I tried to calmly explain to both why they had to stay home/go to school. This immediately prompted son 2 into pulling out all he'd learned in his master drama classes as he attempted to cough up a lung in a bid to prove he was still unwell. Son 1 just kept yelling in ever increasing decibels.
This went on for some time. I tried to get son 1 to put his jumper and slippers on so that he could get in the car for his brother's drop off. He refused (read: flung slippers and jumper around the room and flailed about yelling on the sofa). Meanwhile, son 2 had decided to take matters into his own hands and had removed all of his clothes and was insisting on getting his Jarmers put back on.
In case you haven't tried, it's very, very hard to to pin down two small boys at once. You just manage to get one to hold still and the other scarpers off. You get one dressed and the other has pulled their shoes off. And this was them both supposedly weak and feeble and recovering from ailments. God help me when they're both at full fighting fitness.
Eventually, after a brief but well deserved smack to both backsides (apologies to the anti smacking brigade, I'm with you in principal, but failing in reality) which did little to change their minds other than to increase the volume of their yelling, I could feel myself wavering. Do I give up the fight? Do I call their father and tell him to get off his train and return home to deal with them? Or do I soldier on ignoring all protestations?
I opted for the latter. I grabbed son 2 in all his naked glory and carried him outside into the freezing air to the car. The shock of the cold actually took his breath away giving momentary respite from the yelling. Before he regained it and continued screaming only this time howling: Get me dressed. Which I duly did in the car, strapped him in and left him yelling angrily. I then had to frog march son 1 into the car clutching his jumper before strapping him in.
Now you might be reading this thinking I'm a cruel and vile mother for treating two ailing young children in this way. It did cross my mind that I shouldn't take a child whose just spent a week with a raging temperature outdoors with no clothes on. And it did cross my mind that a sick child really isn't themself and need to be given some leeway. But honestly, I am at a loss as to what else I could do. How far do you give in to the so called sick-bed shenanigans? How much leeway is too much? When are they being a bit difficult vs say completely taking the piss?
I'm afraid my placenta didn't come fully loaded with a manual on how to deal with the small baby that had been attached to it for nine months. A design flaw I feel. And so I continue to stumble on through the child-rearing battlefield hoping that I don't run out of ammunition before the enemy strikes back.
Perhaps it's time for me to get the razor blade and valium tabs stashed into the car cubbyhole. Or perhaps I should just order a jumbo size bottle of rescue remedy. Or perhaps I should just hire a nanny. Whatever the solution, for the sake of my sanity, I need wellness to return to this house. Pronto.
Today my children have taken my patience and hit it out of the park, scoring a home run on the driving their mother demeted scale. It's all part of the illness recovery period. Son 1 is still ill (officially). He had a slight temperature this morning and still wasn't eating so I felt it was best that he stayed off school. Son 2 is on the mend but irritable and used to getting his own way. This morning I told son 1 that he wasn't going to go to school, but could stay at home and watch TV and eat snacks. I would have thought any normal kid would have been jumping through hoops to get this. But no, not our contrary fairy.
He immediately began to wail loudly about wanting to go to school. At the exact same time, son 2 started wailing that he didn't want to go to pre-school, he wanted to stay at home and have what his big brother was being offered. I tried to calmly explain to both why they had to stay home/go to school. This immediately prompted son 2 into pulling out all he'd learned in his master drama classes as he attempted to cough up a lung in a bid to prove he was still unwell. Son 1 just kept yelling in ever increasing decibels.
This went on for some time. I tried to get son 1 to put his jumper and slippers on so that he could get in the car for his brother's drop off. He refused (read: flung slippers and jumper around the room and flailed about yelling on the sofa). Meanwhile, son 2 had decided to take matters into his own hands and had removed all of his clothes and was insisting on getting his Jarmers put back on.
In case you haven't tried, it's very, very hard to to pin down two small boys at once. You just manage to get one to hold still and the other scarpers off. You get one dressed and the other has pulled their shoes off. And this was them both supposedly weak and feeble and recovering from ailments. God help me when they're both at full fighting fitness.
Eventually, after a brief but well deserved smack to both backsides (apologies to the anti smacking brigade, I'm with you in principal, but failing in reality) which did little to change their minds other than to increase the volume of their yelling, I could feel myself wavering. Do I give up the fight? Do I call their father and tell him to get off his train and return home to deal with them? Or do I soldier on ignoring all protestations?
I opted for the latter. I grabbed son 2 in all his naked glory and carried him outside into the freezing air to the car. The shock of the cold actually took his breath away giving momentary respite from the yelling. Before he regained it and continued screaming only this time howling: Get me dressed. Which I duly did in the car, strapped him in and left him yelling angrily. I then had to frog march son 1 into the car clutching his jumper before strapping him in.
Now you might be reading this thinking I'm a cruel and vile mother for treating two ailing young children in this way. It did cross my mind that I shouldn't take a child whose just spent a week with a raging temperature outdoors with no clothes on. And it did cross my mind that a sick child really isn't themself and need to be given some leeway. But honestly, I am at a loss as to what else I could do. How far do you give in to the so called sick-bed shenanigans? How much leeway is too much? When are they being a bit difficult vs say completely taking the piss?
I'm afraid my placenta didn't come fully loaded with a manual on how to deal with the small baby that had been attached to it for nine months. A design flaw I feel. And so I continue to stumble on through the child-rearing battlefield hoping that I don't run out of ammunition before the enemy strikes back.
Perhaps it's time for me to get the razor blade and valium tabs stashed into the car cubbyhole. Or perhaps I should just order a jumbo size bottle of rescue remedy. Or perhaps I should just hire a nanny. Whatever the solution, for the sake of my sanity, I need wellness to return to this house. Pronto.
Thursday, 6 November 2008
The delights of sick children
The joys of having a sick child. I'm not sure which bit I like least really:
a) The genuine concern that this might be something more than just a passing bug and that perhaps we really ought to go to the doctor/A&E/call NHS direct but have been down that route so many times and it always ends the same: just wait it out.
b) Knowing that the cheque is in the post. It's only a matter of time really until my other child gets this bug followed by me getting it. Husband probably won't as he's barely here but if he does that will be the end of my sanity as it will instantly morph into man-flu of the worst sort. He will expect sympathy and days of bedrest while I'll have to just crack on and vom/wipe my nose when I get a spare minute.
c) Knowing that the aforementioned cheque is likely to arrive this weekend which happens to coincide with a friend's 40th birthday party that's been the talk of the town all year. We have fabulous 60s style Austin Powers outfits which we can't wait to wear but they won't go well with a violent hacking cough. And besides, if the children are deathly ill, we can't abandon them to a childminder for an over night stay.
d) Several nights of no sleep thanks to a having a small furnace sleeping next to me, coughing violently all over me, asking for 'brinks' every three minutes and me bolting upright everytime a pre-vom sounding whimper is emitted, frantically feeling my way in the dark for the sick bowl.
e) Not being able to work because even when the sick one is sleeping, I am so tired and lethargic that I can't get my brain to operate.
f) The semi recovery phase where the child is still too poorly to do anything but well enough to have a bad attitude, demanding peeled oranges but insisting that not a single piece of 'white stuff' is allowed to be left on or demanding peanut butter on crumpets before flinging the lot on the sofa proclaiming that it's not spread on properly.
g) Having to watch endless rounds of cbeebies. Or reading Cock-a-doodle-do, Farmyard Hullabaloo a gazillion times.
h) Trying to keep older brother entertained at the same time as looking after younger sick brother. This borders on the impossible.
I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open and the bags underneath them are a delightful shade of deep purple. It's amazing how my child's illness can make me feel so unwell. I will write again when we are no longer a plague house. Pray that the gods of good health visit us soon.
a) The genuine concern that this might be something more than just a passing bug and that perhaps we really ought to go to the doctor/A&E/call NHS direct but have been down that route so many times and it always ends the same: just wait it out.
b) Knowing that the cheque is in the post. It's only a matter of time really until my other child gets this bug followed by me getting it. Husband probably won't as he's barely here but if he does that will be the end of my sanity as it will instantly morph into man-flu of the worst sort. He will expect sympathy and days of bedrest while I'll have to just crack on and vom/wipe my nose when I get a spare minute.
c) Knowing that the aforementioned cheque is likely to arrive this weekend which happens to coincide with a friend's 40th birthday party that's been the talk of the town all year. We have fabulous 60s style Austin Powers outfits which we can't wait to wear but they won't go well with a violent hacking cough. And besides, if the children are deathly ill, we can't abandon them to a childminder for an over night stay.
d) Several nights of no sleep thanks to a having a small furnace sleeping next to me, coughing violently all over me, asking for 'brinks' every three minutes and me bolting upright everytime a pre-vom sounding whimper is emitted, frantically feeling my way in the dark for the sick bowl.
e) Not being able to work because even when the sick one is sleeping, I am so tired and lethargic that I can't get my brain to operate.
f) The semi recovery phase where the child is still too poorly to do anything but well enough to have a bad attitude, demanding peeled oranges but insisting that not a single piece of 'white stuff' is allowed to be left on or demanding peanut butter on crumpets before flinging the lot on the sofa proclaiming that it's not spread on properly.
g) Having to watch endless rounds of cbeebies. Or reading Cock-a-doodle-do, Farmyard Hullabaloo a gazillion times.
h) Trying to keep older brother entertained at the same time as looking after younger sick brother. This borders on the impossible.
I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open and the bags underneath them are a delightful shade of deep purple. It's amazing how my child's illness can make me feel so unwell. I will write again when we are no longer a plague house. Pray that the gods of good health visit us soon.
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