Putting the "fun" in "family holiday"

Chippie’s flatness had turned to severe clinginess when we arrived at destination yesterday afternoon, complete with a fever, and a not very nice sounding cough.

Dash to local chemist before bed to get hands on some baby panadol, which we had neglected to pack before leaving home yesterday morning.

Pandolled up before bed, where he slept on the loungeroom floor with Monkey Boy and I, and he slept like a log. Until about 2.30, where he woke, burning hot, cried a bit, made his way over to me, gave a horrible, seal-like cough, lay on me and promptly fell asleep again. A hot little bod against mine, and hot little head wedged into my neck, I found it difficult to return to sleep myself. Torn between letting him sleep and getting up to get some more panadol for him, I chose the let him sleep. Another awful cough in his sleep then quiet.

A little too quiet.

Far too quiet for my liking at this hour of morning. I held my breath, because that’s what you do when you need to listen better. I could hear breathing. I’d ruled mine out, because I was slowly asphyxiating, but was sure I could only hear one person breathing. Attempt to determine which of my two son’s it was.

Just short of passing out I established that both, in fact, were breathing and still alive, my panic returned to normal and I eventually drifted back to sleep, toasty warm from toasty warm baby lying on top of me.

Sleep was short lived as he awoke again not long after, still hot, still coughing horribly and I contemplated getting up and driving to nearest hospital so they could do something with it. They’re much more knowledgeable about these sorts of things, and, quite frankly, I don’t want to be responsible for babty who frightens bejesus out of me at Stupid O’Clock with horrible cough and lack of breathing.

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