1. Another Day, Another Dawn
2. Hello Ground
3. Oh No, Not Again
It was Son 1 aged 6. The barking seal. All night. HIs temperature raged. I ladled in Calpol, ibuprofen, water, cough mixture, hot Ribena. I knew there was no way I could slide him into School: “Lord no, I’ve never heard that cough before in my life.” So Son 1, Son 2 aged 3 and I woke up at 0730. I again tried the long list of “You must ring me if you’re stuck,” people The Man always tells me I must enlist. No-one could help. Nanna was out on a Day Trip. Glamorous 24 year old wasn’t answering her phone. I called an Office Colleague. Couldn’t get hold of him. I called my Boss. We were scheduled to meet, with an HQ Visitor. We decided they’d come to The House instead.
Son 1 really wasn’t well. Son 2 was vicious. Son 1 wanted lots of love, attention and medicine. Son 2 was prepared to kill him to stop him getting any. It was very, very difficult. Son 1 couldn’t do his Star Wars Lego, because he needed help, and Son 2 wasn’t letting that happen. He couldn’t play with his soldiers because Son 2 kicked them and trod on them. It was horrible, and it meant that I didn’t get downstairs tidied by the time The Office People arrived. We did all right for about an hour, and then Son 2 buzzed us again and again. Son 1 was getting worse and worse. His temperature topped 39. It came down to about 38 with Calpol and ibuprofen. He looked very rough. His throat is sore. He has a white coating on his tongue.
My colleagues left, we had lunch, Son 2 pooed his pants. I went nuts. I am not very proud of myself. But I am sick, sick, sick to death of him crapping himself. I threw his pants out. Upstairs in the Big Bedroom, I unpacked some clothes we must have borrowed for Son 1 years ago and never used. There were about 20 pairs of pants, including some Star Wars ones. Son 2 insisted on wearing them. And the Buzz Lightyear pyjamas. Son 1 dressed in Spiderman pyjamas. Aged 3 – 4, so his long lanky arms and legs were sticking out the ends. We all had a nap in the Big Bed. Son 2 looked heavenly. He is an angel. I won’t hear a word against him. He pooed his pants again at teatime, and I threw them away. He cried and cried. “You can wash them! They Star Wars! I lub them!” “I’m not washing any more pooey pants. If you want to keep your Star Wars pants then do your poos in the loo.” I know I am supposed to ignore, ignore, ignore. But I have truly, madly, deeply, had enough. Son 1 was getting worse. At about 6pm I realised I was going to have to get him to a doctor. Hooray hooray. Out-of-hours land. I rang NHS Direct. They said I should ring the out-of-hours people and get him seen. The out of hours lot told me to take him to the Town Hospital. We saw a doctor at about 8pm, two hours after the first call, which I thought was a Good Thing. The doctor gave him penicillin. The parking fairy let us have a space back at The House. I googled “sore throat,” “white coating on tongue” and “fever.” 47,700 results. Most of which seem to say Scarlet Fever. A Runner Again Seeing Red
[...] I rang NHS Direct. Get him a throat spray and some antiseptic lozenges, they said. I rang The Man, walking back from The Boat, and sent him to Boots. Nanna and Younger Sister came round for a salad tea. We opened the bottle of Moet which has been in the fridge for months, waiting for the right occasion. We toasted the Happy Couple. “To me and The Man,” I said. Son 1 ate the cucumber off the skin and left everything else. We took him upstairs for a bath. Afterwards, he lay in his bed, burning up, with a temperature of 39 and a killer headache. I gave him ibuprofen, left my second glass of champagne untouched and waited half an hour. He was still listless, his temperature 38.6. I rang NHS Direct again. They wanted him seen, and the out-of-hours doctor rang. “Bring him over now.” We went to the clinic at the Town Hospital. Tonsillitis, said the doctor. Here’s a prescription for antibiotics, but don’t start him on it now. Wait and see how he is in the morning. Ever Decreasing Circles [...]