For God's sake. It’s that point when you think you’ve nailed it, and then the Gods of Parenting piss all over your chips. Chicken pox. It’s been a pleasure. NOT.
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So, if you’ve ever ready any of these blogs I write, you all know that I am, as a rule, sleep deprived, my nerves are tested (shot to shit usually) and that I’m usually running on empty whilst relying on an unhealthy amount of caffeine to get me through the day. But show me a parent that isn’t or who’s never been in the same position and I’ll call you a geet big fat stinking liar!! No offence.
How bloody horrible, ugly, painfully crap is the dreaded pox?! The three eldest had already had it. They kindly took poorly two weeks before we moved house whilst the husband was on nights. Typical. I still shudder when I see Shrek, having watched the sodding thing on loop 24 hours a day… God…
A really good friend of ours was a children’s nurse. She reminded me of the edgy text I sent her demanding an explanation as to why there was no vaccine available on the NHS. I remember I was furious at the time that not only did I have to sort the house move, do the packing etc, but my three Tombliboos looked like they had contracted some kind of tropical disease! I cried each time I changed Moobag’s nappy. God it was horrible!
So, Agadoo got the pox. No biggy. I can deal with it. Did it with three last time…
Calpol. Check. Ibuprofen. Check. Piriton. Check. Patience, energy, capable parenting skills… replenishments maybe needed. Christ, if self-doubting depression (a blog about this will be written when I feel a bit braver) hadn’t battered me enough, I now, after only two months of full nights' sleep in nearly seven years, have a SCREAMING spotty 2-year-old. And please note, that full night's sleep is by no means comparable to a minimum eight hours, uninterrupted, pre-children, full night's sleep. More like six hours with the occasional screaming child. Alas I digress. I reckon I have angered the Parenting Gods. I must have. Obviously I’ve not, it’s just a childhood illness but it couldn’t have happened at a worse time.
She’s just learning to put nice little sentences together. Sadly ‘I love you Mammy’ isn’t one of them. More ‘Itchy tum-tum Mammy’ and ‘Aggie's hot! Cuddle Aggie Mammy!’ Ee it's heartbreaking to see them isn’t it. I reckon a few will scar but we’re on the up and it’s nearly over. But a fortnight in of sleepless nights reminds me why I always complained of being #knuckingfackered. It makes you feel physically ill!
For four nights we ended up downstairs watching Frozen on loop (like we’ve not suffered enough). She needed me, to be on me, at all times, day and night. Weirdly I think her being poorly has helped me in some way. To poor poxy Ags all she wanted was me. Nowt else. Food didn’t matter, TV, nor whether or not her cuddly toys were by her side - mattered not a jot. All she wanted and needed was me. As well as a shed load of meds…obviously. I’m a mother not magical.
Sometimes all you it’s the simple things that help you get better; cuddles and time. Check me out getting all soft and gooey. I just need help to get better and I need to remember I’m not doing this on my own – for one my poor long-suffering husband is an absolute beaut. I’ll call him a lazy arse for not doing enough housework or the way I want the housework done (see Mrs Mullen wants a Mind Reader), but he has the patience of a bloody saint and for that I thank him. But if he forgets to do the skip run and get some more milk I’ll kick my height. Joke. Joke…I’ll just slam a few cupboard doors ☺