Huzzah, we are on the mend, but Keith and I are both feeling a bit frazzled after this weeks sleep disruption. In fact, last night Keith made perhaps his worst decision so far in our six years of parenting.
There has been a lot of coughing from the kids at night. Croupey, asthmatic, worrisome midnight coughing. We've been doing a lot of creeping in and replacing blankets and administering water, and a lot of lying in bed, listening to the hacking, and postponing that awful moment of actually leaving the warm nest.
Last night I lay listening to Ivy cough and splutter for ages before I said to Keith 'I think we should bring her in.' He was wasted with sleep. 'In here with us?' he said. 'Yeah', I said, 'in the warm.'
'Kay' he mumbled and staggered out into the hallway. To my horror he turned left, instead of right, and a moment later he appeared, carrying the wrong daughter.
'What are you doing?' I whispered in shock, as he tucked Georgie in between us. She snuffled with surprised satisfaction, and then Ivy started coughing again, and Keith realised what he'd done. He froze and we lay in silence for a moment, as the enormity of his stuff-up dawned upon us.
'Come on George, that was fun, wasn't it?' he said quietly, as he tried to carry the baby back to her room. 'Little visit to Mummy and Daddy, and now back to bed!' Of course she wasn't having any of it. She screamed blue murder and he had to get up and sit watching the cricket with her for an hour before she went to sleep again.
She woke up later in the night and wailed again. I went in to find her standing up in bed. 'Out dere!' she shouted. 'Out Daddy! Out Daddy!' I fear she may be expecting a midnight cricket party with Daddy every night from now on.