Harry rapidly morphed from his usual flailing bundle of energy into a poorly boy yesterday evening, with a streaming nose, temperature, cough, diarrhoea (which he had, previously, finally, been free of for 4 days) and hoarse little squeak. Which is nothing out of the ordinary, except that we are in a major swine-flu hotspot – all the surrounding villages have cases in the schools.
We dutifully consulted the NHS Direct website and read that under 5s showing symptoms should be anti-viraled – it seemed a little extreme, but we nevertheless undertook the tedious rigmarole of contacting the out of hours services – the arranged callback came 2 hours later than promised. Honestly, you’d think there was a blasted pandemic, or something.
The doctor was spectacularly vague and contradictory, telling us firstly that it was impossible to say over the phone whether he had it or not (WTF?) and anti-virals were only being used as preventatives, not treatment (WTF?) and would only stave off an inevitable re-infection in any case because flu’s floating about invisibly everywhere in the atmosphere (WTF?) but we could totally have some anti-virals if we really wanted them (WTF?). Now, a combination of the fact that it was the wee small hours by this point and Harry was bawling like a lost and heartbroken calf must have meant that John and I misheard and/or misinterpreted some of this ludicrousness – but we both spoke to the chap, and we both came away feeling clear as mud on the subject.
Harry scored his usual sickness-upgrade to the parental bed, where John endured his share of the frantic cuddles, wet kisses, kicks and delighted gurgles for about 20 minutes before decamping grumpily to the spare room. I put up with about another hour of Harry rampaging, baby elephant-like, around the bed – and then the room – before returning him quietly to his cot, taking pity on the subsequent meltdown, bringing him back into bed, watching him deliberately take giggling aim and thump me, twice, and then taking him rather more briskly back to his cot where he gloomily subsided into sleep until his usual 5.30am wake-up.
And he’s been happy enough today: toastie-hot but paracetomoling back down sub-37, and toddling around the place as usual. After lunch, which he picked at, I carted his protesting yet exhausted little frame upstairs for a nap. After 10 minutes the row continued unabated, so I went in – steadfastly ignored his uplifted arms – sat down in the rocking chair next to his cot, and bent down to fish his teddy from underneath my feet where he had been forcefully hurled.
I straightened up, and immediately a vaulting child crash-landed into my arms.
Harry had (astonishingly, given his 79cm height) thrown one foot up over the top and heaved the rest of himself effortlessly over, clearing the top by an appreciable margin and flinging himself bodily at me. I was going to cuddle him, come hell or high water, apparently. I sat there stunned and squeaking, whilst he - accurately assessing my preventative incapability – instantaneously carpe diem-ed, and quickly beetled head-down out of the room and back downstairs.
This is a complete arse.
John is all for leaving the side up and waiting until Harry actually hurls himself out and to the floor – all that way below – before tackling the problem, on the dubious premise that he may not bother to do it again if I’m not there. I politely advance the opinion that this idea is crap on toast. Harry is more resigned to sleep than he used to be, but there is no way on God’s earth that he is going to stay put and go quietly to sleep when toys! floor! drawers! are beguiling him seductively from the far side of now-obsolete bars. They’ll have to come down this evening, and the long, weary process of encouraging Harry to put himself to bed (that sensible grown-up thing that Mummy can’t quite manage herself all the time) will have to begin.
I re-started his nap in the car this afternoon, before carrying him upstairs, fast asleep,
and attempting to limit the injurious nature of the drop.
Of course, I then arrived downstairs to find that the tortoise was also having a try at plummeting Certain Badness
so that’s something else to worry about – as well as the fact that my American in-laws arrive a week on Friday. Without wishing to actively invite puzzlingly derisory or kindly commiserative comments about my erratic housekeeping: my one guest bedroom, although furnished on a budget of about sixpence (and possessing curtains that I cut too small
and had to cunningly rescue) is kept vaguely respectable at all times
but the others look like this
respectively, and All Must Be Tidy & Clean before my feisty and cleanliness-worshipping SIL hits UK soil.
And lastly, because I must go and DO Stuff, Harry clearly indicated to us yesterday - rather earlier in life than most boys do – that he’d quite like a puppy, please.