As usual, I keep mentally drafting a dozen blog posts that never make it anywhere near here, usually because I think of them while I’m driving. Then evening rolls round and by the time I’ve galloped through my blog feeds and mentally bookmarked dozens of sites I want to look at again/in more depth/actually bloody comment on this time – it’s 10pm and it’s too late for me to start writing. I must be the slowest blogger in Christendom: I never seem to get the hang of dashing a quick one off the wrist – ahem! – every day or so; instead I save it up for you in great indigestible chunks that take me hours to write. I must achieve brevity, for your sanity and mine.
So. Lemme see. What’s happened?
I had cause to remember my red onion allergy at the weekend. I hadn’t actually forgotten that the smell of the things makes me ill, it’s rather that I’ve been avoiding them for several years on precisely that basis, without actually being able to recall quite what they do to me. They’re colourful and attractive and I thought, really, I must surely have imagined something so damn silly as an onion-smell allergy, so I bought 3 to put in with my supper-party roast veg on Saturday night. Caution intervened and I only prepared one; I left it in quarters, mid-afternoon, in a large dish of peeled and chopped root veg that I kept meaning to cover over and never did, as I was pathetically behind culinary schedule as usual. I began to feel fairly headache-y after a hour or so, and thought ‘I really MUST cover that bloody onion up’ – and got distracted by something else, and didn’t.
I was concentrating so hard on cooking that it wasn’t until guests turned up at 7.30 that I realised I was verging on a migraine and my sinuses felt as if they had been injected with liquid lead. My tinnitus (a permanent legacy of Castle Donnington 1991 Monsters of Rock festival! Yo! Duuuuuuuudes!) was roaring and I could still hear my pulse pounding in my ears over the top of that. I struggled through the whole evening and went to bed feeling exceptionally shitty. I could see purple auras around objects in the half-light, my neck glands were swollen and my entire nervous system felt dysfunctional and overwrought. Harry yelled for an hour or so, which helped not one jot. It took me more than 24 hours to recover. Judicious googling has revealed that I am not actually quite alone in my freakish allergy, and, like me, other sufferers can encounter white onions and garlic without disturbance; only red onions are the naughty ones. Do bear this in mind when you invite me to lunch!
So. That was boring. What else?
Harry’s physio discharge letter came, and said what we expected it to say: they can see no physical reason for his falls. He ‘certainly appears to have a degree of hyper-flexibility’ and ‘does tend to fall frequently, particularly from furniture, steps, etc’.
Uh-huh. Bouncing horses, too.
‘He appears to have a high activity level, but does not always appear to be aware of the risk of falling.’
You can say that again, lady. Oh… you do!
‘He needed constant attention to avoid injury’.
Sigh. We’re taking Harry – and his shiner (which the photos aren’t doing full justice to; I’ve been looked at like a true pariah by every mother I’ve seen this week) – to see his Paed tomorrow – except it isn’t actually his Paed, because they’ve shifted all the clinics about, so it’s ‘one of the paediatric team’; at least we have the benefit of a second opinion, I suppose.
Harry had a rotten cold the last half of last week, John has lurched from sore throat to sore throat, and I’ve been bunged up with unspeakable and unshiftable mucus for a fortnight or more. Harry was so sad and sorry for himself last Thursday that he ended up sleeping with me for a couple of nights, barking with a hoarse little squeak and smearing me liberally in the night with his mucus-laden features when he came for kisses and cuddly reassurance.
Of course, largely recovered, he is now waking up at midnight and demanding stridently to be brought into bed with us. If he is given-in to, he lies quietly between us in the dark for a few minutes before becoming utterly bored and deciding to par-tay; this takes the form of him launching headbutts randomly into the dark and giggling. I have a sore nose – again – and John suffered a spectacularly fat lip. When Harry is inevitably carted back to his room by a furious and smarting parent, he proceeds to melt down in heartbreaking fashion, pulling every known trick in the tantrum book. He throws himself about the cot so enthusiastically that his sleeping bag poppers and zips generally give up the ghost, freeing his legs for a launch attempt over the recently-heightened fence of his cot bars towards Planet Parent.
I completely comprehend Harry’s frustration and confusion. In cot! Wah! Escape from cot facilitated! Weee! In cot again! Wah! John is annoyed because I had him in bed with me to begin with and started the Cot Protest rot again, but it’s just not in me to leave a miserable, toastie-hot, achey, sneezing, coughing little boy sat mournfully behind his cot bars, clutching his water bottle like it’s his best friend, and wailing sadly. He’s a tough little shoot, but I can see when he’s feeling absolutely rotten and he ends up sleeping with me every time he’s poorly… and every time we have to go through a week’s worth of weaning him back into his own room afterwards, usually just in time for the next virus.
I accept it’s a problem. Hubby also needs to accept that if he starts one more sentence with ‘If you hadn’t…’ at 4am in the morning, when we’ve both been trampled to a bloody pulp by our son’s bony hooves and neither of us have had a wink of sleep yet, his breeding days are o.v.e.r.
By virtue of Harry’s viral woe, I managed to entirely miss the much-hyped BBC Question Time featuring the BNP MEP Nick Griffin. Some of you may not be aware of the British National Party: they are the UK’s far-right political abhorrence and gained 2 European – not British – parliamentary seats in the last election. As elected politicians, I regretfully concede that the BBC does indeed have a moral obligation to occasionally bung them on TV, but… well. I had vaguely planned a bit of a long rant about it here, but I now find I simply can’t be bothered to download it and watch it: apparently he came off badly, which was no surprise.
I have much I could say, but will confine myself to the bald statement that Harry’s life was saved by 3 doctors: all of them coloured, all of them accented, all of them immigrants. I bless them frequently. The BNP delivered a leaflet through our door earlier in the year, and the only reason I didn’t wipe my bottom with it is that I have more respect for my own arse than that.
Harry’s life needing to be saved at all was brought back to me in disturbing detail last week: my long-awaited pregnancy and medical notes arrived. That’s a whole other post – likely an excruciatingly boring one, too (WordPress have just introduced a new, bright-red ‘Move to Trash’ button, and it appears to be affecting my confidence!), but I always think that and mysteriously you keep coming back – so I will try my hardest to write it tomorrow night.
And… it seems that my blogroll is being shat on, particularly and horribly hard lately.
Pru is down, Womb is down, L’eggs is down, Twangy is down, Thalia is down, Belgian Waffle is down.
Everyday Stranger is having a dreadfully hard bloody time.
May is spending tonight in hospital with a suspected ectopic pregnancy. In her single remaining ovary + tube. is miscarrying, and having a shockingly shitty reproductive nightmare.
These ladies need bloggy love, even if it’s the silent in-your-head sort.
Filed under: Parenting | Tagged: blind baking, Bloggy Buddies, Ouch, Sleep Good. Sleep Nice. | 5 Comments »