Little Miss Poorly

Daughter is poorly.  I should have realised she was under the weather when she didn’t join in at the party we went to on Saturday afternoon at all, but being the unsociable flower she can be, I just thought it was par for the course .  Then Auntie T and Big Cousin C visited, and she was on top form, impressing them with her interpretative dance routines.

On Sunday, she woke up at a time that should be illegal at the weekend.  Surely 7.20am is still the middle of the night on Sunday?  And why is it that I have to drag her out of (our) bed on a school day?  By 9.30am she was asleep again and our suspicions were roused.  She had a brief spell of cheerful wakefulness an hour later and then bam!  Asleep again.  She missed her new ballet class, much to the apparent distress of her Little Cousin E, who has been going to the class for an age.  And that was the hope of a pleasant Sunday gone.  She spent the day crying or sleeping.  She chose me as her cushion, and I caught up with some TV.  Even though she was poorly and I was trapped, a little part of me quite enjoyed it.  It’s been a long time since she’s had a sleep on me in the middle of the day, and a sleepy snuggle is right up there in my top five.  Her little baby face was so cute and peaceful, and just so lovely.  I did manage to make a roast dinner in between tears and snores, although I did forget the peas and the potatoes were extra crispy.

She slept with me, and Husband retreated to the spare room.  It was like sleeping with a ball of fire.  The morning brought a complaint that the light was too bright and off we went to the doctors.  Tonsillitis again.  She is definitely her Mummy’s daughter on this one.  Feeling like a bad Mummy, I organised a relay of Husband and Mother childcare and went to work, costing me £6.50 because the car park was full (the early bird catches the parking space where I work) and I had to park elsewhere.  I got in, and within half an hour she was sleeping on me again, which of course lead to a nightmare bedtime.

She slept with me again, and despite having half a double bed to herself, I still found myself hanging off the edge.  I’m surprised I didn’t wake up bald, because she pulled my hair like a caveman would to a prospective wife.  And then at 5am, a little cry of ‘Mummy, I feel really poorly’.  Cue soothing and offers of water.  Cue ‘Mummy, I think I‘m going to be…’.   And I learnt once more that tiny stomachs actually do hold an awful lot when one considers it splattered across the bedclothes.  There’s probably no worse chore than changing the bed at 5am.  Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, she started to cry again.  ‘Mummy, Fluff has got sick on him!’.  I could have wept.  I’ve never been allowed to put Fluff in the washing machine, but there was no escape this time.  I gathered the sicky clothes and surreptitiously picked up Fluff.  But nothing gets past Eagle Eye.  I fobbed her off with some story about putting him on the radiator to dry.  Off I went to put on my dawn wash.  As if to punish me for lying to my little innocent, a greater force got its back on me and pushed me down the last four stairs.  Yes, I did hurt myself.  But more importantly Fluff survived the wash and she was none the wiser.

Motherhood.  Imagine the job description!  But vomiting and falling down the stairs notwithstanding, it really is the best job ever.  I’ll consider my vomit stained PJs a badge of honour, and my salary is paid in cuddles.  If only I could get the mortgage company to accept that kind of currency!