1.  A Dark And Stormy Night 

2.  Sea Breeze 

3.  What A Beautiful Day

Oh What A Night.   Son 2 aged 17m woke up at about 2300m and The  Man went to him. I went upstairs… The Man was already in bed with Son 2.   I went to bed and Son 2 still fretted and called, and called and fretted.   Son 1 aged 4y 4m cried out.  I heard The Man snoring.  My left ear,  which has been cracking since last summer was agony if I lay on it.  After well over an hour of Son 2 bawling and miaowing. I went down.  The Man had Son 2 and Son 1 in bed with him.  I sent him and Son 1 upstairs, gave Son 2 Calpol and snugged down with him.  At 0130 I said if he didn’t go to sleep he was going back in his cot.  At 0200 he was asleep on the bed, and I went downstairs to sort my ear out and get a cup of tea. He started howling again.  I came back upstairs and put him in the cot.  I bent down next to him for a good 20 minutes, killing my ear, jaw and throat.  He finally passed out.  At last A Good Thing. I went downstairs and drank tea till 3am.  And then went to sleep in Son 1’s bed. 

  Son 1 slept till gone 9am. The first time he’s still been asleep in bed when Wonder Nanny arrived.   We rang his Best Friend.  Going to the Gardens by the Beach with their scooters.  We were under pressure, because Son 2 was so tired after his disturbed night.  We loaded up the car with The Big Pram (portable bed,) Son 1’s scooter, Son 1’s skates, knee and elbow pads and helmet, and Son 2’s pushalong car.  When we got there Best Friend had had such a huge tantrum that he wasn’t allowed in the Gardens, and had no telly all day.  We went on The Beach.  Son 2 loved it.  He was still screaming to stay awake when I wheeled him up and down to get him to sleep at 1330.  Amazing stamina.  Must get it from his father.   The split lip is still looking pretty grim.

A Northerly, so we were protected a little on The Beach, the sun shone, the air was clear, children ran around everywhere.  Next to us we had a half-term club, who had a parachute,  piles of buckets and spades, and a huge sand racing car they’d dug.  They wanted Son 2 to sit in it.  Until he started taking great handfuls out of the steering wheel and bonnet.   Our four welcomed a stream of small children who wandered in and out of their play zone…   Son 1 in the end folded.  He’s still got his temperature thing, where he suddenly starts to burn up, and he wanted to go home. I have a nasty feeling he’s just not drinking enough.  Being positive, we now have a new sticker chart.  He can have a star each time he has a cup of juice/water/milk.  And so we’ll soon find out if it’s a dehydration thing.

1.  Bananas in Pyjamas

2.  Third Time Lucky

3.  The Last Breastfeed

Last night I stuck my hand in my pyjama drawer and found a designer pair from the BC days.  Cream.  Cotton/microfibre mix. Soft.  Lace at wrists and ankles.  This morning I sat in my glam nightwear propped up on pillows with Son 1 aged 4 and Son 2 aged 13m reading baby books.   Son 1 went to the loo, Son 2, who’d kicked off his pyjama bottoms, crawled after him.  I sipped my coffee. This is great, I thought.  I can’t believe I haven’t worn these lovely pyjamas for more than four years.  Son 1 called from the bathroom: “Son 2’s done a poo!”  And then: “And it’s all down his leg!” Son 2 crawled back into the bedroom, his nappy hanging off, leaving a great turd on the floor.  I picked him up and took him to the changing mat. He thrust his hands down to his willy and coated them.  I held him upright, him crying indignantly, his legs pedalling furiously in the air, and called to The Man. “I need help here.”  “I’m clearing this up. ” “I need help.” “In a minute.”  At last, The Man finished with the floor problem.  By which time Son 2 had pedalled squashy brown flecks onto my lace, my buttons, my sleeves, my shoulder and my stomach. I looked like I’d been shot by a paint gun filled with poo.  All over my beautiful, beautiful pyjamas.     

I made another appointment for Son 1 at the doctor’s, The Man took him up.  Son 1 has an ear infection and needs antibiotics.  Earache. Moaning about his ear.  Sensitive to touch. And waking screaming and feverish, night after night.  This is of course a positive blog.  But.  I believed the doctor who looked in his ears on Tuesday and said there was nothing wrong.  And, having heaved him all the way up there yesterday, I would have liked the Duty Doctor to ring back, as promised.   Son 1 wasn’t well enough to go to his friend’s party.  Looking on the bright side, we have now established that he only hollers at night when there is indeed something wrong.

I fed Son 2 for the last time tonight.  I’ve reduced the lengths of the feeds; I’m offering him milk from his cup.  I couldn’t really see him feeding in the gloom, and wondered vaguely when I last watched him.  Guilt - I know he still loves it, and he’s finally settled down to find the last feed of the day comforting.  Dread - really not looking forward to tomorrow night.  I hope it’s not hard for him.  Regret - bye bye babyhood.  Grief - no more little babies for me.   Pride - I did it, even though it was very, very hard. And I know in a week’s time we will both be fine.    Relief, maybe. I’ve picked a day, and I’m sticking with it.