Awoken at 3.41am by a crying toddler.
He’s been doing so well. He’s actually been sleeping all night, every night for, oh, about three weeks now. Not so long that I’ve actually got comfortable with the idea and can fall into a deeper sleep where I can’t be woken by a leaf blowing up the street. But long enough to have got used to it and be getting uninterrupted by others sleep.
(Course, I haven’t been sleeping, but that’s not due to toddler.)
Worse is the horrible cry, followed by an equally horrible cough that woke me. His cot had been invaded by a demented seal with a nasty cough. And horrible cry.
Having zero energy to battle … anything really, I hauled him into our bed, where I spent the remaining Sleep Designated Hours listening to his rasping breath and flying into a panic every time I couldn’t hear him breath.
What a joyous repose.
I self-diagnosed (is it self-diagnosed if I diagnose it myself, but it’s someone else I’m diagnosing? No idea, I’m too tired to care) croup and, being a Saturday morning, before hours – of course. When else would it be? – I rang the Royal Children’s Hospital to see if taking him into Emergency for a dose of whatever it is they give them was ok, or if they preferred I didn’t. Because I’m that kind of person. And I’m tired and can’t think what to do.
We went for the “take him in” but given we’d dealt with the issue before, and had a rough idea of what to look for, we didn’t rush. I thought I’d have MUG and get dressed, and get him dressed and drive in. Grumpy Pants, on the other hand, felt driving us in and dropping us off would be a better idea.
Right after he had his coffee, and breakfast, and shower, and … just when I was ready to say “fuck it” and leave, he was ready. Twenty five minutes of asking the other two to get dressed/shoes on/get organised and of me mumbling for fuck’s sake, I could have been back by now,