After some careful consideration, I can confirm that Hell is indeed a place on earth. I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not Ikea hung over on a Sunday afternoon. It’s not the Tory Party Conference or a Trump Rally. It’s not even an Amazon warehouse on Black Friday. No; these are, at most, gateways to Hades’ underworld. True hell – a place of eternal damnation, cruel torment, and infernal punishment – is to be found within the four walls of our house. And ruling over this frozen lake of blood and guilt (as Dante would have us believe), is a gurning pint-sized satan.
I haven’t managed to post for the last couple of weeks since we have been out of commission. First, hand foot and mouth hit The Boy like a ton of bricks. Poor little dude ran a fever for a few days, and developed blisters on his hands and feet. He was very sorry for himself, and rightly so. His sleep – already a D on his report card – took a turn for the worse, and we suffered along with him. Just as he was recovering, he picked up a sickness bug, which stalked the house like a Jurassic Park raptor (though, with greater success). By Friday last week, we’d all had a dose – and we’d been in quarantine, stuck in the house for almost 10 days. The sleep took another nose dive, and we ended up crying through episodes of Peppa Pig at all hours of the day and night.
The illness has subsided for now, but The Boy is cutting his bottom canine teeth at the moment (honestly, poor wee guy), and he has turned into a monster! I have so much sympathy for him, and it’s horrible to see him in pain, but it has been so rough trying to keep going on no sleep (he was up from 12-2am last night, and then up at 4am for the day) and with the constant wailing and whining.
‘Do you want a rice cake?’
‘Nooooooo’ (imagine a plaintive dog, but more like a moaning toddler)
‘No No NO NOOOOO’
‘Do you want to colour in?’
‘Ok, do you want me to read you a book?’
He is going through a clingy stage just now, and I have fallen out of favour. It’s all about mummy, which would be ok if he actually wanted Cat. In reality, he screams when I try to hug him, shouts ‘CUDDLE’ at Cat, and then demands whatever it is he really wanted in the first place once he has escaped me (‘CBEEBIES!’ / ‘DOWNSTAIRS!’ / ‘MUMMY AND DADDY’S UTTER MISERY, AND THE BANISHMENT OF ALL THAT IS GOOD.’). We’ve made a rod for our own backs (as people are wont to say to new parents) – and we know it. We let him watch a lot of CBeebies when he was ill because a) we felt sorry for him, and b) we were variously ill/knackered/morally bankrupt. Now we are trying to wean him off the telly, but he’s having none of it, and has learned to turn it on himself. We are screwed, basically.
Someone recently asked me if we were thinking about having another baby. I honestly don’t even understand the question at this stage.
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