For the two and a half weeks leading up to Christmas I spent most nights sleeping (ha!) sitting upright in bed with my poorly, sick baby sprawled across my shoulder in an attempt to stop the cycle of coughing and vomiting that kept him awake whole nights. To say I am tired is an understatement. I think I may actually now be in a coma and just not realise. In fact I’m dreaming right now, aren’t I?
Basically the whole of December has been spent with one or all of us sick. Edward has had the worst of it, being struck down with virus after virus and that hacking cough that is going around which made him sick daily for three weeks. All last week over Christmas he was a weak, post-viral slightly pathetic sight but very definitely recovering. He had been so ill for so long that I had forgotten how smiley and wonderful he is.
Then on Sunday my eldest complained he felt sick and on Monday Second Son had diarrhoea which grew steadily worse, accompanied by swelling all over his body which was something I have never seen before and I’ll admit I thought about taking him to the doctor pronto until I remembered that we would probably pick up something worse there. He threw up prettily all over the bathroom a couple of nights ago (which Matthew gamely cleared up without waking me, so tired am I) and he is still suffering today. A trip to the doctor tomorrow is unavoidable, I fear.
So I was in bed at 9.30 last night, missing the whole seeing-in-the-new-year thing. Which was just as well because I was awoken at 12.30am, just as most normal people would have been finishing off the dregs of the champagne and going to bed, and from then I was allowed to sleep maybe forty minutes or so until it was seven o’clock and – joy! – time to get up. Happy New Year!
In the words of D:Ream, things can only get better.
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