It’s been a tough old fortnight in the Donaghy-Sims house of woe. We’ve had some small ups but plenty of downs.
We’ve been in our house for 5 years and never fed any of the walls (apart from the hall and River’s nursery) a lick of paint so we decided to treat it to a makeover. With the paint came the usual disruption and fumes and eventually they caught up with River and his small but very well exercised lungs took the hit. After a few nights of coughing more than he usually does (he’s quite a chesty baby anyway) I got him to the doctor who decided he may have asthma and gave me an inhaler to give him with the caveat “He’s a bit young to take it so try and keep it over his face for 30 seconds. Oh… and you can put it over his face at night when he’s asleep because he won’t resist!” Great, I set myself the task of Mission Impossible style lean-over-cot-and-apply-mask-in-darkness-without-waking-small-terrorist and put him to bed with the knowledge that I’d be visiting him soon in all black and a balaclava, strapped with my bazooka of Salbutamol.
Great – in theory. Except the inhaler spacer they gave me had a whistle. He woke up, in hysterics because Mummy was leaning over his face with an object covering his mouth and nose. That’s one for the therapist for a later date.
A week passed trying to get the eel to take his inhaler to no avail and his cough was getting worse. Every time he opened his mouth I was shoving some syringe full of syrup or something ending in -mol down his throat and the trust between us was officially gone. He was so grouchy with me he wouldn’t be picked up, nor put down. It was like the Grand Old Duke of York except it’s 31 degrees and I’m just not in the mood for this shit.
Thursday night turned into an all-night rave of squeaky breathing which upon inspection at Children’s a&e was in fact Croup. For those who don’t know, croup effects the lungs, windpipe and voicebox so no wonder is was so upset. He got a dose of steroid and we were sent on our way.
Which is where the high comes in, River began showing signs that he was about to walk. He was holding on to less and less and eventually by Saturday morning he took a confident stride across a room to an excitable puppy named Eli. Now we can’t stop him. He waddles everywhere like a duck on the prowl for stale Kingsmill 50/50.
All the breathing issues has disrupted River’s sleep (and subsequently mine) so badly that he’s averaged 8 wakes for most of the last week and a half. I am literally running on fumes and the high of him tottering about chasing Benji shouting “GAAAAAHHHH” as he enthusatically waves spoons at him. Totally all worth it.
As I write this I can hear him stirring for the first time tonight. Send help. And coffee.