An evening at the emergency room ….

Connor has always been an ENT (ear nose and throat) child.  If there is an infection doing the rounds, he will get it, and it will be something that either means his sinuses are blocked or his ears are infected.

Either way it is excruciating pain.  Usually if not treated effectively he risks bursting an ear drum and this may lead to the loss of hearing or part there of.  We are old hands at this.

On Sunday morning Connor looked a bit off colour, and not as exuberant as he usually is.

On Monday morning he looked less than ideal.  I was under the impression there was a mathematics exam, so bundled him off to school though I knew he was not feeling great.  I said he should call me as soon as he is done/not feeling well and I will collect him.  I did not want him to miss the exam (I am so in the acceptance for grade 8 school zone right now).

Mistake # 1 : The exam had been postponed.

Mistake # 2 : Connor started throwing up pretty much as I left the school.

By 09h10 I was back fetching a very sick and feverish child.  No doubt I was being discussed in the staff room with reference to my questionable parenting to bring my son to school in that state.

We saw a GP at about 15h30. He needed an anti-biotic and pain relief.  No amount of fairy dust and happy thoughts were going to get rid of the pus.  We just needed to kick it anti-biotic style.

The evening went as evenings went in terms of dinner, homework, bathing and the usual chaos that ensues.

Connor got more and more uncomfortable as the evening wore on.  He started crying that his ear was really sore at about 19h00 and by 21h00, after more painkillers, he rates his pain 10/10.  The only option left was to toddle along to the nearest Medi Clinic.

At no point do I wish to suggest I am not thankful we pay a small fortune to have the luxury of medical aid.

I also do not wish for a moment to show a lack of appreciation for what probably is a top class hospital right on our doorstep.

But after more than an hour in the waiting room, with a sobbing child, and really nothing to do but sit there with a look of angst on my face, I started to wonder about our service provider Medi Clinic.  And whether some where in their service model things have gone badly wrong.

Or maybe whether I am expecting too much in terms of timeous medical care, and should just get my “wait and be patient” on.

We arrived, had to fill in a mountain of paperwork.  Though every member of my family has been to this exact hospital for everything from birth to allergic reactions, but for some reason they did not have access to our updated records.

No one assessed how much pain Connor was in, and whether they could assist him.  Clearly he was not missing a limb and bleeding to death, so we filled in paperwork grabbed a chair and waited our turn like good little patients.

I did start to get all sorts of delusions of entitlement. I was paying for a service, and it starts to feel like you are at Elsies River Day Hospital (which I am sure is a wonderful place, and I have not been there …..) and really I was not really getting a service.  I was waiting in a queue.

After an hour a sister did come and do observations.  Connor is still crying in pain.  She cheerfully told us to head back to the waiting room, wait for the doctor and that she was now going home.  Yes, lucky you!!

Connor had eventually cried himself to sleep.  An eleven year old boy crying in a public area until he is so exhausted he falls asleep.  You must realise that is a special kind of crying.

We eventually saw a doctor after yet more waiting.

The problem is that every doctor I see looks 12, and in some way either a clone for Doogie Howser, or the boy who got left home alone at Christmas time.

The 12 year old doctor told me what I knew and that was that Connor had an ear infection.  What really!?  I might have had less of a sense of humour than I normally would have had.

The doctor said that he could not give Connor anything for the pain.

A hospital with full access to a myriad of medication.  One of which must be connected or loosely related to morphine.  Access to a drip and a needles cannot give a boy pain killers ….. I started to doubt why exactly I had spent more than 2 – 3 hours waiting for this pearl of wisdom (granted I was now tired, irritated and cold – the air conditioner was set on “freeze your snot to ice”

The doctor wrote a script for some gargle stuff, some nose drops, and after I started to insist, he wrote a script for ear drops that had a Novocaine base.   I figured anything to relieve some of the pain in Connor’s ears would be a good idea, at worst I would put it in a tot glass and sip on it.

Because we were already not having enough fun, we had to drive to another location to fill the script, as the hospital pharmacist was not open.

Fortunately we have access to a 24 hour pharmacy.  I bought a lice comb while I was there (another one) and a bag of Easter Eggs (first one) – I figured the night was such a disaster I might as well just breath in a bag of easter eggs, and check my hair for lice, I mean it is practically a party.

I walked away from the experience thinking that my thoughts and prayers go out to anyone who has to deal with a public/government hospital.  Here I was sitting in a private hospital, and feeling angry because we were not being seen timeously and my demands were not being met.

How hopeless must you feel in the public health sector?

130212_ear infection

The one about the dead pigeon ….

I haven’t told you about Saturday night yet – I have left the best for last.  I suggest you put your poppy seed muffin aside for a bit, or eat it quickly before continuing to read.

Dinner ends, everyone goes home, and after saying goodbye to everyone, I walk back into the house.

I get this bad odour that whips past my nose at a certain area in our lounge.  I have been getting the same tinge for the last few days, but keep putting it down to something that is happening or not really dwelling on it.

It is not a strong odour, but it is a bad odour. 

Our lounge is not used much, and we have big sliding doors that are left open, so the smell was not strong, because (1) we had not been in the lounge and (2) there was constant flow of fresh air coming in.  The upper and lower door have also been open, so there was a lot of air flow during the week (because it had been so hot).

I stand there – it is about 22h00 on Saturday night – and instead of just walking through the lounge I stop and sniff, and this rather unfortunate smell assaults my nostrils.

I really hate a bad smell, and I know it has been hanging around for a few days, so I know I can’t ignore it anymoer.  It definitely is not coming from outside (as initially thought).

I stand and ponder this for a moment and then my beady eyes start moving around the lounge.  Our lounge is quite minimalist (which equals not well decorated and not a helluva lot of furniture) – so I am standing there looking around, trying to suss out where it could possibly be coming from.

Our lounge floor has white tiles (circa 1985 – the disco era), so it is not as if something could have been messed and absorbed into the carpet.

I consider that one of the kids could have dropped something on the floor and it could have rolled under the couch and that could be the smell I was getting.

I put my back into it and heave the couch about a meter from it’s present position, fully expecting to find a rotting apple.

What I did not expect to find was a great big dead pigeon!


Sounds like a job for Kennith.

I headed downstairs to the tv room and called for Kennith (and John – who is staying over) to come and sort the pigeon out.  I realize he was not going to be performing CPR, I just needed him to pick it up and throw it away. 

I do live animals, Kennith does dead animals.

Our tv room is on a level just below our lounge and there is a glass wall separating the two.  From the tv room I can look up into the lounge.  I close the door and sit in the tv room with Connor and chat to him, while I watch Kennith.

Now what happens next is put together from what I could see and hear, and what Kennith and John told me about the next day.

Kennith gets the big broom and the dustpan scoop and thinks he will just push the now deceased pigeon into the scoop.  Put him in a plastic bag and throw him away into our outside dustbin.

Easy enough.

What Kennith does not account for is that said pigeon has been dead since Monday (it is now Saturday) – and as he lifts the pigeon up with the broom, it allows the real smell to escape.  The smell of rank death.

Kennith is now gagging, not play acting gagging, but full on leaning over, eyes watering man-gagging.  John has entered the scene with the plastic bag he has found, and he takes one sniff of the odour of Senor Pigeon and he starts gagging, and leaves the room.

I am in the tv room and all I can see is this drama unfolding through the glass.  I can’t quite see the pigeon or smell the smell, but I see these two boys in a total state of mayhem in the lounge.

Kennith composes himself and uses the broom to try to move pigeon onto the dustpan scoop. 

Seems like another good plan.

However it seems that now pigeon has lost control of his inner organs due to what ever happens after rigor mortis stops, and his entire insides are now this greeny sticky slimey goo that is running all over our floor. 

But to detract from the smell of death and disease, is our troupe of friendly maggots who have taken up residence inside the pigeon and are now trying to flee the scene of the crime.

Kennith is trying to scoop up the pigeon, trying not to get pigeon death on his feet, and trying to round up the fleeing maggots in his dustpan scoop.  All whilst trying very hard to hold on to the pasta dinner he has just eaten.

Pigeon ends up in bin. Kennith and John are both feeling rather ill – and Kennith asks me to clean up the pigeon juice which is has leaked onto the lounge floor.

This is one of the few times I have been glad for white tiles.

I get jik and a bucket and clean the area, and lift little carpet and chair up, and leave everything to air.  Horrible, horrible, but problem sorted.

We all go to bed and that is that ………… or is it?

I really really wish it was.

Next morning Kennith, John and Natalie get up, put on some lycra, and ridiculous hats and go off and ride the Argus Cycle Tour.

I walk through to the kitchen at about 7am to get Isabelle a bottle, I walk into our little scullery and there are thousands of ants. 

I am like: “What the f&ck!”

I wish I could say I said “oh my goodness” but I didn’t.

There is a throng of ants – the part that is more confusing is we have not had much in the way of ants since we have lived in this house.  My brain is trying to understand what the hell is going on here and why would they appear so quickly.

Between the cussing and the confused look, I lean over to examine the ants.

Only to discover that among the ants are MAGGOTS – dozens if not hundreds of them!

I am like:”You are shitting me!”

My brain cannot spring into action.  My brain tries to look around for the dots so it can join it and make the picture.  I really cannot function unless my brain goes “there you go, dots connected..”

I am standing there staring at ants, staring at maggots, trying not to throw up, and trying to understand what is the connection from last night to now. (the scullery is two levels away from the lounge and there is no way even the fittest maggot could have got this far!)

Then I see it – the broom and the dustpan scoop – carefully placed right there next to the fridge, right next to our potatoes and other vegetables!


Guess who took a free ride up the levels via the broom and the scoop?  No prizes for getting this one right.

Of course at that point I was feeling less than gratious towards Kennith.

I mean seriously ……… seriously! 

At least I had the sense to take my bucket and mop outside after cleaning up after the CSI scene, and put them outside next to the house, not in the middle of the f&kn kitchen with our food!

Besides now standing in shorty jammies, and having Isabelle screaming for her milk – I am now up to my ankles on a Sunday morning in ants and maggots.

These are without a doubt, the best days of my life!

Sunday was Chinese-water-torture Night


Basically the way the game is played, is that you are a little more stressed/exhausted than usual.  You are trying to get kids ready for bed, all the time while keeping an eye on the digital clock above the oven, as it flashes the minutes in large red letters.

Digital letters have never looked so alluring and sexy!

I know it is bad karma to wish for time to pass.  But when you are wanting kids in bed, and some time to yourself that does not involve the word “mommy” being used in a whiny voice, poo that is not yours and spilt milk, the minutes they cannot move fast enough.

I love that clock – I shout BINGO as soon as it says 19h30 (I shout it inside my head, I do not want to make the kids think I am any stranger than I already am)!

If your kids are young you can shout it earlier depending on when you have decided that  “Fek I have had enough of this, and these munchkins can go to right sleep now before I kill them!!”  So time is flexible at this point.

Older kids can tell time so once they are around 6 thistechnique of bending time gets more tricky. Unfortunately you only need one who can tell the time to spoil the entire thing for everyone.  This reason should be motivation enough for not training kids to tell time until they are about 11 or 15!

 Yes, you can set the clocks forward, but odds are you will forget as soon as kids are in bed, and you have finished the second bottle of wine, and then you are pretty stuffed the next day as you are then never on time for anything!  It’s a good idea but lacks in application.

Background:  Kennith had been away for a week, and two weekends.  Added to that I started a new job on Monday.  The kids started of a new school year.   Isabelle was having a reaction to the 18 month jabs I had done for her last week.  I get anxious when Kennith is away  – like really!  Combination = total stressed out me.

Sunday afternoon Kennith got home.  We did dinner and then started aiming the kids to bed.  There was the usual chaos.  Georgia was being Georgia.  I was at the juncture where our three child family was about to become a two child family with the mom at Polsmoor.

Got kids into thier beds – I might have thrown them a bit….but I aimed them towards where there were pillows and a duvet, so that must count for something.

I am doing stuff, Kennith is lying on the bed with his iPhone – one of the kids cries/needs a bum wipe or something – Kennith chirps “just because I am home doesn’t mean I am on child duty right?” 

What do you think I am thinking right now?  It’s not “I heart you” right now, that is for free.  He has been away for two weekends.  I don’t care where he was, he wasn’t here and that counts as a holiday in my book.

I got in to bed around 23h30 and fell asleep after less than a paragraph of my book. 

Isabelle started to moan, and I thought I would leave her and she would settle and then everyone would be asleep.  Happy days.

Then I listened and thought, well I should just go in and check on her to make sure her leg is not caught in the cot bars, or she has poo’d so much her nappy is leaking it all over her cot bedding – both of which has occurred.  So guilt got me out of bed, and I went down the passage to check on her.

If I settle her, she will go to sleep and then I can sleep, and that was my motivation and I figured, I do this one and we are sorted.  Right?  Not so much.

I go and settle her and head back to bed.  As I start to doze, I hear her moan again.

Again I think, should I leave her to sort it out or should I go in and just make sure she is fine, so she can go to sleep and I can enter Nirvana?

I go in and settle her.  She is sort of half sleeping half awake, and moaning, which is not a good sign.  But I pat her, cover her with a blanket, and exit the room.

The same process then repeats itself about five more times until about 1am.  By around this point I have lost what ever was left of my sense of humour.

Just after 1am, Kennith hears her for the first time, jumps out of bed, stumbles down the passage, comforts her and falls back into bed.

I decided to lie there and let him, I should have stopped him as I had just done that, but I figured he could get this one, I would get the next dozen or so.

The balance of Monday morning  was the exact same routine, over and over again until around 5am.

At that point she escalated the moaning to screaming.  I was past caring for her or being concerned for her at this point.  I was trying to work out how many Voyager miles it would take for me to go to China.  Not because I wanted to specifically go to China, I just did not want to be here anymore.

Kennith woke up, I suggested we fetch Isabelle and put her in our bed.  He said no.

Only because I was so sleep deprived at this point, I was past reasoning, and hoped/fantasized/seen once in a movie, that a couple slept with their baby in the bed.

Kennith said no, and was about to launch into a lecture about the evils of children sleeping in their parents bed, and the bad example it sets, and global warming and why Kim Kardashian is a great person to follow on Twitter.

I switched off (from him – I could still hear Isabelle clearly), rolled on my side, and continued to tighten the jaw muscles to see if I could actually snap off a molar.

Kennith woke up, he suggested we fetch Isabelle and put her in our bed.  I said that is a great idea.  He fetched her.

She did however continue to moan and thrash around the bed, and kick me and stick her fingers in my eye.  Fabulous if this is your thing, not so good if you are hoping for a slither of sleep.

Kennith managed to go back to sleep, albeit for a few minutes.

I would like to say that I was really happy for him, as he has been travelling and had been away, and really needed sleep.  But I was slightly less than charitable in my thoughts.

Isabelle continued to moan and be up for most-likely-to-be-packed-in-a-cardboard-box-and-given-to-gypseys.

This went on all morning  – of the little bit that was left.

Eventually  I picked her up, put her in the passage and called loudly/screamed down the passage: “Pepe, please come and get her, else I am going to do something with her that I am going to regret!” 

It sounded nicer that what I was thinking which was: “Pepe, come and get this fekn child!”  But I know Pepe knows Child Services telephone number so I am careful what I say around her some times.

Pepe fetched Isabelle.

I had a shower.  I dressed.  Fortunately my wardrobe is jean pant with a shirt and black shoes, so that often does not take much brain power.  Tried to drink a cup of tea which tasted like crap – because my taste buds were not functioning.

It felt like a sheep and peed in my eyes.  Why a sheep?  I don’t know, it just felt like livestock has been urinating in my eyes, and sheep just seemed the most likely to get up to that sort of nonsense.

Shuttled kids into the car.  Said good bye to Pepe and Isabelle and then tried to get through the next 10 hours feeling like dog crap on a pair of grasshopper shoes.  It was a very long day, and all I could think about was sleeping.

I seriously do not know how mothers function who do this for several days at a trot.  I often hear from moms who have not had a full night sleep since Julius did woodwork, and I am totally flabbergasted at how they function.

One night of this and I was ready to say or do anything just to get some sleep.  Yes, it was me on the grassy knoll –  it was me, now leave me alone and let me sleep.

I still do not know what was wrong with Isabelle.  For fear of repeating the same routine last night I packed her in her cot with a healthy dose of Nurofen for kids.   

I slept like the dead last night, and woke up this morning feeling a lot saner than yesterday, and almost refreshed.   Isabelle also looks like she is back to her chipper self.  Monkey!

Hot in the city, hot in the city tonight, tonight

Last night reminded me again that I had won the BEST Parenting BLOG and not the prize for BEST PARENTING Blog.

We went over to our mates Joyce and Leon for a braai last night, and met up with Lorna and Peter as well.

Cape Town is experiencing what can only be described as a heat wave at the moment.  If you do not have an air conditioner and access to a fridge with cold beer and a pool, then life right now is not dissimilar from Hades for you.  It is absolutely scorching.

Last night when we arrived at our friends home, at 6pm the temperature was 34 degrees.

At about 10pm I walked into the pool fully clothed and the temperature was easily 30 degrees then.  It was not hot as much as it was f*kn cooking!

Georgia has slept in her costume for two nights running!

Anyway back to my bad parenting moment.

Great evening, great food, great wine, possibly slightly too much wine.

But it was fine as Kennith had an ear infection and was on antibiotics so he was limiting his alcohol intake, and automatically made him the responsible parent and designated driver.

Kennith had also packed two bottles of wine for me – for one evening out!  I felt it was slightly excessive, but I also did not want to disappoint him.  Two bottles in one evening out is a challenge.  It is not impossible, but it is a challenge.

Any the who.  Great dinner, great wine, then when it was all over we went home.

Kids were exhausted with the heat and they had been swimming a lot, so they asked to sleep in the lounge.

Considering the couches still had their bedding on them from the night before, it seemed a sensible solution to just agree to let them sleep in the tv room again!

Our standards have really slipped during this school holiday.  I am not sure when the last time my kids had a bath – and Georgia is wearing a plait in her hair that I did on the weekend (today is Thursday!) – so that sort of comments on how personal hygiene has sort of got lost along the way.

Any the way, kids in bed, Isabelle into her cot.  She went to bed with just a nappy on as it was too hot to even consider putting anything else on her.

She fell asleep, or so I thought.  I stumbled to bed, put on my Ackermans nightshirt and fell into a I-ate-too-much-chicken-and-have-definitely-not-drunk-too-much-wine pile.

I fell asleep for what felt like five minutes and then I heard Isabelle screaming like she was being strangled.  I fell out of bed, picked myself off the floor, sort of fell over myself getting to her room, and burst into her room.

Arrived, and she was very upset (not because I had arrived you understand, she was upset and then I arrived – sorry I still feel a bit drunk clearly).

I proceeded to sit with her and rock her for what felt like an hour.  When her eyelids became heavy and I felt her breathing sort of slow (or my eyelids got heavy and my breathing started to slow). I placed her back into her cot and headed back to my bed.

Repeated the same procedure of falling into bed in a heap.  Only to be woken before I had actually slipped into rapid eye movement, by more screaming from Isabelle.

At this point I decided I was going to do the parenting-with-tough-love and would leave her to scream it out.  Eventually she will get tired and go to sleep.

I was desperate to sleep, so the room would stop spinning!  I lay there and tried to doze, but the screaming – she was screaming a loud, I was screaming on the inside – just would not stop.

I slammed my feet onto the floor as I heaved my mass out of bed.  Not only was I really tired, but now I was getting annoyed.

I march to Isabelle’s room to give her a firm talking to.  I flick on the passage light, open her door with just that too much force (so as to make an impression that I am clearly not happy), I enter her room wearing a very disapproving look on my face!

Only to find that she has caught her fat chubby leg between the bars of her cot and is screaming like a banshee!

I felt worse than dog sh*t left in the sun too long!  I freed her chubby little leg, rolled her on her side and patted her a bit until she dosed off, castigating myself for being such a bad person as I had let her scream while she was in distress!

Of course she proceeded to scream as soon as I got back to bed.  Of course now I jumped up like a Jack in a Box and did at least another four visits to her room.

Even when she stopped screaming and eventually fell asleep, the scream was still ricocheting in my head so much so, that I thought she was still screaming (even when I checked on her and found her sleeping three more times!)

I woke up before 6am this morning, feeling like death, and then because I could still “hear the screaming” I went to check on her again – and of course she was sleeping spread out like a Snow Angel in her cot, quietly sleeping as babies do.

I am now serving my penance. I really ate-too-much-chicken and have a pounding head-ache.  I am sleep deprived. And to show me that karma is a bitch, my right contact lens has got lost behind my eyeball, so it is like the itchy-and-scratchy show in my right eye-ball with reduced vision!


(I have also just sniffed a bunch of my hair, that smells faintly like urine, so clearly at some point Isabelle also wee’d on me, which now appears to be in my hair!)

Things that go bump in the night …

Jackson is our cat, he is a Maine Coone and quite large.  He is quite vocal when he has something important to tell you such as “there is no food in my bowl” or “get up, there is no open window so I can get out side” or my personal favourite: “hey come and look and see what I killed for you.”

Last night I am lying reading – it is nearly 2am, and Jackson comes in to the room.  He makes his meowing/barking sound and then goes under the bed.   Judging by his movements, I know that he is not alone and has either brought a friend who is alive, or is just this side of dead.

Either way it is 2am, it is dark and he is under my bed with whatever or whom ever he has with him.

I wait a few moments and then start trying to peer under the bed, without actually letting any part of me drape over the side of the bed.  It is not working, so I wake Kennith.

<Kennith by the way who is meant to be my protector, has slept through so many sounds in our house that I get up when something makes a noise to go and check on it.  I tend to only wake Kennith  if I have actually seen a large man in our passage with a machete, and he has ill intentions on his mind.>

Me:  Jackson has something and he is under the bed.

Kennith: …..


Kennith:  What …. what ….. shit, I am sleeping.

Me: Yes, but Jackson has a friend under the bed.

Kennith:  It’s nothing, it’s a moth … its nothing, go to sleep.

Me: I don’t think so.

I start flicking a towel under the bed to get Jackson to leave – judging by his reluctance, I assume he is probably playing with something, which means what ever it is must be at least part alive.  Jackson is not that into necrophilia.

Many towel flicks later, Jackson does leave – and without his friend.

I look over at Kennith with the tone that clearly says: “Get out of bed, look under the bed and make it go away.”

Kennith finally rolls himself out of the bed, chooses to put on pants – which is great, as I think when you are going to be crawling under the bed to see what creepy crawlies have been brought in, the least you should do is cover your hangy bits.

I am crouched on the bed, waiting for my protector to save the situation.

Kennith turns on the en-suite light and crouches in the en-suite doorway to see if he can see what is under the bed.  Our room is quite large, so he is easily about 2 metres away from the edge of the bed and thus not exactly in a prime location to get a fix on what is under the bed.

Kennith squats and squints – always on the balls of his feet – ready in case something jumps out at him.  After what I can only describe as a brief glance, he  declares: “There is nothing there!” and gets back into bed.

I know there is something under the bed.  But I am not going to go under to look – I try to counsel my kids that there aren’t really monsters under the bed, but I start believing other wise in the dead of the night.

Kennith turns the main light off and climbs back in to bed.

I really can’t see anything, but I am too sh*t scared to get out of the bed to crouch on the floor.  So I am sort of hanging off the edge of the bed waving my bedside lamp around to try and cast some light into the cavernous depths that are the under of our bed.

I can’t see anything, so settle back down to read. (I know there is something, I just can’t see it, so settling is more, waiting for the beast to pounce.)

The thing that I admire (not necessarily like) is that Kennith is ever the opportunist (and the optimist).  He rolls over to me and goes: “Because I sorted the thing out under the bed, can we have sex?”

Me: “No, we are not having sex – and you did not sort the thing out.”

Kennith: “There is nothing there or it was a moth, leave it and go to sleep.”

I know there is something there, and the chances of me going to sleep are nil – I think if it is a little mouse, it is fine, let it just scuttle off and find it’s way out.

Then I hear the click-click-click of nails on our floor boards – which tells me that clearly it is not a moth.

Again, I say to Kennith: “I can hear claws, it is not a fekn moth!”

Kennith: ……..


Me: “It has nails – can you not hear it!?”

Kennith: ………..

Me: Get out of bed, and SORT it out!

Kennith rolls out of bed again – with great reluctance – and lacks all enthusiasm, he squats to look under the bed – fortunately pants are still on.

Things moved a bit quicker now as the moth turns out to be a mole, who is also trying to get out of the room.

Kennith steps (I would like to say jumped – but I am trying to retain a semblance of his manhood) into the corner and says: “I don’t do moles!”  I was sure he was using a rather shrill high pitched voice at this point, but so much was happening, that it is difficult to remember accurately.

Good to know!  Which I quickly interpret, using my spidey-sense, to mean that I need to do moles.  Kennith argues that I did it the last time and now I have experience, and thus I should do it again.

The mole uses us arguing as a distraction, and tries to make a quick exit from the room and escape down the passage.

This would probably be fine, but he has no where to go and odds are Jackson is going to find him again and then there will be entrails in the passage when we do get up. Picking up a live mole is no fun, but scrapping bit of a dead mole off the passage floor is less ideal.

I try and corner the mole with a towel.  When I think he can’t go anywhere, I ask Kennith to just watch him, so that I can go down to the garage to fetch the net.

I go all the way to the garage and return with net – being sure to unlock and relock all doors, and turn off all lights – it is a bit of hike from our room to the garage, so it does take me a bit, and I also had to go into a dark garage all by myself!

I get back and Kennith clearly has gained some testosterone since I left him.

Somehow his shoe has come in to the game, I am not sure how.

The mole is trying to flee down the passage.  Kennith is trying to keep the mole at bay – with the shoe – but at the same time sort of doing a Johnny Clegg dance which I interpret to mean that the shoe might have some limitations.   While doing his expressive form of dance, he tries to grab Isabelle’s nappy dustbin, which we always leave in the passage when she goes to sleep.

Kennith is bravely trying to keep the mole at bay, and reach for the dustbin without losing ground or eye contact with the mole.

He proceeds to fling the nappies out onto the floor and then attempts to scoop the mole up with the pink dustbin.  It sounds easier than it is, but by the looks of things it takes several attempts and some shrieking from Kennith to get mole inside pink dustbin.

All whilst I am standing in the passage in my shortie pajamas with a fishing net.

Mole does finally get in to the dustbin, and then mole is unceremoniously flung out into the backyard.

We finally climb back in to bed.

Kennith snaps at me to put the light off – it must be well after 4am by now.  I do switch off the light and there we both lie in the dark.

Kennith of course does suggest that we can both go to sleep quicker if I would just have sex with him <sigh>

Note to self – post ad on gumtree to see if anyone wants a cat! House trained, neutered, sort of feeds itself.

Puking is seldom fun ….

I almost forgot how much fun I had on Saturday night – it was a real humdinger but for some reason I seem to have blocked it out of my mind this week.

Coping mechanism no doubt.

Georgia (funny how she is featuring so much lately) comes into our room around 1am.  We are fast asleep and goes: “I need the toilet “ and then pukes on the floor.

She does however put her hand in front of her mouth so it spatters out between her fingers as she is heading towards our bathroom.

Again why she does not just go to the bathroom across from her room forever remains a mystery in our household.  She always asks for permission – which is endearing – however is less endearing at 3am as she leans over and whispers/shouts: “I need the toilet, can I go to your bathroom?”

So back to Saturday’s revelry.  Of course we scream – in unison –: “Bathroom, go the the bathroom!”

She goes, she throws up some more – some in the toilet, some not.

Kennith at this point has woken up, flicked on our overhead light and is standing in the corner like a scared three year old – the fact that he is naked is not doing him any favours.

Kennith cannot abide puke in any shape of form – he can swim in poo if he has to, but show him a speck of puke and he starts to blubber like the village idiot.

I look at him slightly annoyed while I clean puke off myself, off child, off toilet seat, off toilet wall, off toilet floor, off passage floor, off passage wall, off child’s bedroom floor, off child’s bedroom rug, out of child’s hair and a few splatters off bedroom door.

Child is all dressed anew, smelling mildly fresh.  I pack her off to bed, with a kiss on her forehead.

I get in to bed.  Throw the duvet with just a bit too much force over my bulk to show my irritation that Kennith, well, did nothing.  I close my eyes, make a little sighing sound and wait for slumber to appear.

Just before slumber appears, Georgia arrives for scene two (re-enacted, rather than any new features) … and pretty much goes through the same script, scene for scene.

Kennith is again in the corner – I have retained my part where I am cleaning up puke off various surfaces of the house.

It is all disturbing familiar.  All I am missing is the Sonny and Cher song playing in the background (reference kicks back to Ground Hog Day)

I am now a bit less amused than I was the first time, and am tiring of the role I have been cast in.

When aiming Georgia towards her bed this time – I decide to put a puke bucket next to her bed – well it is actually the mop bucket, but today it gets to be the puke bucket.

Georgia decides that scene three needs a go – this time before I had got myself into bed.

I must confess to losing out of the “Mom of the Year” Award at about this point.  I knew I was totally of of the competition when I heard myself screaming “for fuck sake, could you just puke INSIDE the toilet this time!!”

Any the who – once again I was scooping puke up – and redressing and … well you know how it goes as I have already covered this section earlier.

But I learn from experience, so I took Georgia, green bucket, puke towel and got into my bed with her.

Initially I miscalculated and thought the puking was all over and she can just sleep with us.  I put the puke bucket and the puke towel next to the bed within easy reach.

It is amazing the reflexes you possess – like crazy cat reflexes when a child in YOUR bed starts making that whoooggghhhh-whoooggghhhh sound.

Once she puked and we got that out of the way, I figured there was two ways to go about this for the balance of the evening.

I could either be up every 6 – 8 minutes with her retching over the toilet and me holding back her pigtails, or …. I could put the bucket in bed with us, with the puke towel and prop her up against me and sort of semi-sleep.

I went with that option as that way I could at least hope to get snippets of sleep.  When I thought I had it all taped, she decided to step the stakes up a bit.

She opted to throw in a bit of diarrhea for good measure.  There is a lot I can do in a bed armed with a puke bucket and towel, but catching diarrhea is not one of them.

Even with my incredibly proactive planning I was still up like a flipping yo-yo all night.

I must say it was challenging when she was poo’ing and puking at the same time.

The great thing about Georgia, is that even when she is sick, and retching into a bucket, she is still smiling at you and saying really sweet things.  Bless her cotton socks for being such a sweet little carrot.

Sunday she was pretty drained and lay around watching television most of the day.

I have no problem comforting a sick child at night, but the issue is the next day, the other well children do not acknowledge that you have had about 30 minutes sleep and let you take it easy … unfortunately not.

On the upside when Isabelle had an afternoon nap, we all had an afternoon nap, which was pure bliss.

So that is how we spent our Saturday night.  I can’t say that we are partying like it’s 1999 or anything over here.

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Hush little baby don’t you cry ……

Last night Isabelle started crying – err screaming might be a more accurate description – at about 1am.

It wasn’t a “I’m-a-little-upset-and-will-just-roll-over-and-put-my-thumb-in-my-mouth” cry.  It was a real screaming-child-in-distress cry.  I opened my sticky very disorientated eyes and stumbled through to her – my ability to not knock my toe on the corner of our bed continues to amaze me.  My theory is if you do that once and break your baby toe, you sort of learn a foot-sonar-technique to keep you safe for time eternal.

By the time I picked Isabelle up, she was really crying like she had sustained a serious injury.  I usually sit in her room and rock her until she calms down and then put her back to bed, but it just felt different and she was much more distressed than under normal circustances.  I stood in her room and tried to sooth her, but she wasn’t even toning it down, she was screaming blue murder.

I thought – for my comfort –I will take her to bed and put her in the bed with me and rock her there.  I figured at least I could be warm, awake but warm.

As soon as I got to bed Kennith grumbled something about babies and vasectomies … when I answered “what!” he sort of mumbled through the folds of the duvet that I should walk her around as sitting bed will not settle her.

You know how you feel this overriding urge to pick up the lamp stand and beat your partner unconscious with it?  Well that pretty much summed up how I felt right then.

I thought “You turd, you carry on sleeping, leave me to care for my baby who is clearly dying!!”  A rational mom always settles on death as the only possible outcome at being awake at 1am.

I did stand up. I slammed my ice cold feet onto the floor when I got out of bed – just to make my point.  It might not have been heard through the comfort of the warm snuggly duvet and light snores of Kennith at just that time.

I walked Isabelle around the room a bit, showed her the lights of the sleeping city – we have a great view from our bedroom.  But she was not even vaguely calming down.  Her body was stiff and she appeared to be on the verge of a I-can’t-breath episode.

I took her to her room and sat on the rather hard, cold and squeaky rocking chair to try to rock her to calm her down – all the time wondering how I could maim Kennith as he quietly slept.

I pulled the blankets away from Isabelle’s cot and looked around her room, as I thought that she might have been bitten by a snake or something as she was hysterical and totally out of control.

As I sat there wondering how long I was going to let this go on for before I made a trip to the emergency room, Kennith came plodding through and picked Isabelle up and tried to rock and comfort her.  Okay, so I would not quite smack his brains out with the night light yet …

Kennith then passed her back to me and he went off to bed.  I sat and rocked her until she appeared to calm down a bit.  I was not sure if she was having difficulty breathing as she was crying so hysterically and could not seem to catch her breath.

I thought it might be croup, but there was none of that very recognizable Doberman-sounding cough that separates croup from all other sounds. I thought that maybe a hot bath with lots of steam would help, but it might have been that I was so flipp’n cold right then, it probably sounded good to me.

Eventually Isabelle calmed herself and I was able to lie her down in her cot.  She was not terribly happy, but did do me the favour of putting her thumb in her mouth and started sucking on that.  I left the room door open as I went to bed so we could hear her if her breathing became labored and went back to my bed.

It always amazes me how quickly exhausted parents can spring in to action and run around the house in a panic, and then as quickly fall back into bed and carry on snoring like nothing at all happened.