I thought the monster tick allergy would fill our medical emergency quota for the month, but nay, my friends. Ranch Mogantosh is once again bedeviled with the pox.
On Monday night, Teddy stumbled into our bedroom, flushed and overheating. He slept between Keith and I that night (thank god, for once George stayed in her bassinette between feeds), tossing, kicking and waking up shouting about tigers. (He's afraid of tigers, Ted. Tigers and pigeons.)
Next day, he was loony and hyper, we were frazzled and Ivy started to get fractious and hot. My careful to-do list started to fall a bit behind. Late that night, Ivy started barking in her sleep. I went in to check and had one of those scary midnight-moments where it dawns, in stages, that something is not right. She's breathing weird. Is she breathing weird? She's breathing really weird. She's not saying much. Can she talk? She can't talk. Then Keith and I went into trip-to-emergency mode; moving fast, speaking slowly, hyper-calmly, while on the inside the panic is rising, rising.
Ivy, of course, was having a blast. Attention, adventure, all in the middle of the night! Her breathing was raspy and laboured, but her eyes shone with the thrill of it all, and as she and Keith pulled out of the driveway, she waved at me from the front seat - the front seat, Mum! - with absolute elation.
At the hospital they diagnosed croup, that old bastard, doped her with steroids and sent her home. Ivy, having been in that same emergency room just days before, worked the nurses big time. 'By any chance,' she asked, 'might there be a lollipop?'
Yesterday she was still unwell and called us to her bedside time and again. I gave her Panadol and tucked in beside her for a while, as requested, cramped like a mantis in her little toddler bed. Finally I said I was going to my own room. She complained. 'I'll check on you in ten minutes,' I said.
'Okay, ' Ivy relented. 'But then I need you to check on me ten minutes after that and ten minutes after that and ten minutes after that until it's the morning.'
'Anything else?' I asked.
'Not at the minute,' she said.
This morning, Keith went down in a sweaty, fevered mess. This virus is harsh, and he's only got mantibodies, you see. With him sick, my whole show really went to hell in a handcart. At lunchtime everybody needed trays in bed. Then Teddy chose today to start acting out some attention issues by urinating next to his potty and also crapping his Wiggle underpants dramatically. (Those babies went straight into a plastic bag in the bin. Sorry, the Earth. Please understand I just could not add scrubbing gussets to my day today.)
Of course I've been desperately trying to shield George from all these coughing, sneezing germ machines. Tiny baby with croupy virus - bad news. So far she's OK.
But I'm pretty rooted. There is wet washing in the machine, and dirty dishes on the table. There is no bread, no milk and no fruit in the house. My long lists of cooking, cleaning and crafting preparations for this weekends flower fairy tea party are looking a little...ambitious.
Pox - 1.
Fairies - o.