Going Going Gone

Harry’s perma-snot turned green about a fortnight ago, and I ignored it; we don’t really do antibiotics in HFFamily unless we’re bed-bound and speechless. By Friday afternoon he began to cough a bit; by Saturday afternoon he had cranked up the volume, and by last night he was barking so hard that he hurled up his supper all over hairy hubby and the office carpet. This was his first-ever proper solids vomit, and boy, was it colourful. Interesting textures and everything. We gave him supper #2, and it was my turn to wear it 10 minutes later. I put him to bed, and he proceeded to vomit – in his sleep: nice trick if you can manage it – over his Brand New Expensive Polka Dot Cot Sheets. I sat up with the miserable little fella until 3.30am when we both drifted off in exhaustion. Harry was a chirpy chap this morning, although obviously fairly empty on the inside, judging by the way he lunged intently towards my boobs, hands outstretched and mouth gaping. This time it was the landing carpet that caught the spatter. Delightful Doctors Next Door were telephoned, and child was carried (gingerly, pointing outwards) up the hill to be prodded.

Temperature: 37.9, which is raging hot for Harry, who usually parks precisely at 36.5. Worryingly for my maternal observational skills, I hadn’t even noticed he was hot. Lungs are crackly, but not horribly so. Diagnosis: viral nasty or chest infection, probably brought on by the sight of Mummy packing holiday bags. We are armed with a prescription for antibiotics and have been advised to cash it in at the nearest pharmacy should Harry’s mood turn uber-miserable.

The car is packed, albeit sagging a bit at the axles. John & I are arguing already. Holiday mood sadly absent, but we are going anyway!

One Response

  1. Have a wonderful and safe holiday.


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