1.  Hair

2.  Skin

3.  Bone

I’ve had all my hair cut off. I’ve worn it short for 20 years anyway, but recently I grew it. A bit.  It went wavy. Straight-haired, don’t-care-if-it’s-raining me.  It went fluffy at the ends.  I couldn’t do anything with it.  On holiday, The Man said it was horrible.  Now I am elfin, and he likes it again.  What a relief. “What conditioner do you use?” asked the Shampoo Girl.  ”Hedrin,” I didn’t say.  Lifestyle Guru Hairdresser has spent two years tut-tutting over the straw on my head and reassuring me that Hair Changes When You’re Pregnant. This time she sprayed my head with Instant Stand-Back Defibrillating Deep Impact Conditioner.  At least I hope that’s what it was.  But the haircut’s great, the colour’s great… and I would be walking on air except for one thing…. Lifestyle Guru Hairdresser,  who runs two salons, works full-time and has two sons aged 8 and 6, has finished her Christmas Shopping.  And it’s wrapped. 

Son 1 aged 5y 1m is much better but still droops if he’s not topped up with Calpol. The rash is still pver his neck, chest, stomach and back but it’s now faint pink.  Now.  All you consultant dermatologists and micro biologists reading this.  His molluscum, which has been the grinding bane of my world for months and months and months, is clearing up.  I have tried everything.  Some of the things I have tried  - neat tea tree oil - have made his skin even worse.  He was allergic to it and he  broke out in eczema. I tried to stop it spreading with every brand of skin sensitive plasters on them and he was allergic to them all. So his chest and tummy  was peppered with horrible pustuley molluscum, and the skin between was raw with eczema. Over the last week the eczema is in retreat and the molluscum is healing over and shrinking.  So what’s done that? The Strep bacteria or the penicillin? It’s got to be the bacteria, hasn’t it, because molluscum is a virus and we all know that Antibiotics Don’t Work On Viruses.     

The other Good Thing about today was the weather in the afternoon. We had thundering rain and Force 10 winds overnight and this morning… and then, still windy, still cold, but the sun came out. We wheeled the boys into The Town, did one of our all-you-can-carry Tesco shops and came back again with not a drop of rain on us. Son 2 aged 2y 2m was exhausted and refused to sleep, which made him into my stalker over tea.  Lamb shanks. The Man bought them. I cooked them. The Man had seconds. Son 2 ate three pieces. Son 1 chewed one, then stuck his tongue out downwards so the wodge fell off on to his plate.  He ate thirds of broccoli in cheese sauce.  ”Great,” said The Man. “I’m condemned to chicken and sausages for the rest of my life.”

1.  Red Eye

2.  Red Alert

3.  Red Roses

I’ve been up with Son 1 aged 5y 1m every night this week.  He’s cried, he’s wanted water, he’s wanted squash, he’s needed Calpol, he’s been hot, he’s been cold, he’s climbed into bed with his Mum.  Then last night, he slept like a stone, all the way through, and in the early hours of this morning was still in the same position he’d fallen asleep in.  Me?  Up since 0230.   Doing Office emails at 0400.  Crashed out at 6am, with two boys buzzing me.  “EithergodownstairsandseeDaddy, orcomeintobedandgivemeacuddle,” I mumbled, closing my eyes. Son 2 aged 2y 2m pad-padded off, Son 1 clambered clumsily over the pillows. Little arms went around my neck. ”Son 1 gone downstair,” said a high, little voice in my ear.   It was Son 2, and he was gorgeous.  

The Office were strangely unenthusiastic about the presence of someone with a rattling loud cough, splashing sneezes and Scarlet Fever at home, and this afternoon I gave up and left early. I rang the Surgery for Son 1’s strep test result. Not back. Try again on Monday.  No hurry there then. No wonder they whack the children straight onto antibiotics rather than wait for confirmation.  Back home, Wonder Nanny said Son 1 had seemed much better today. He’d eaten well at lunchtime and said his throat wasn’t sore any more. His rash seems to be lighter too.  It hasn’t gone - it’s still all over him, but it’s gone from being very red to pinky.   He is itching his head like mad.  Yes I have checked and checked and I don’t think it’s livestock. I wonder whether he’s got the rash on his scalp and the hair is irritating it. 

“What about Son 2?” Everyone has asked.  Bouncing around like Tigger.  “Mummy come back work.”  He needed to be picked up, to be cuddled, to be held.   I had a pile of Office calls to take and make.  Son 2 found it very difficult to keep away.  He’s adorable.  Lovely to tickle, to cuddle, to hold, to talk to, to hold hands with, to kiss.  Even The Man sighed this evening “Son 2 is beautiful, isn’t he?”  At bedtime, Son 1 has his bath; I read to Son 2. Then Son 2 has his bath, I get him out, he cuddles me, he lies on his back on the floor and pulls my face next to him, he fights me as I clean his teeth, he plays while I read him his dinosaur book, he lies in his cot and pulls me down to him so my face is next to his.  I Have Never Been Loved Like This Before.

1.  Blotches

2.  Does Your Child?

3.  A Shade Different

Not a Good Night. Poor old Son 1 aged 5y 1m came in at 0230, and I had very little sleep after that. I went downstairs at 4, and then got up at 6, with Son 1 pad-pad-padding down behind me.  One Wednesday Friend - the Booming Businesswoman - is away in South Africa, doing Very Well without the children. The other texted. Swimming?  Nah. Can’t really. I have Son 1 as well as Son 2 aged 2y 2m.  He’s off school with a sore throat.  She would go swimming, we decided, and we three would see her in the cafe afterwards.  I made lunch. I loaded the Big Pram into the car. I loaded all the bags into the car. At about 1015, for some reason I still can’t remember, I checked Son 1’s tummy. There was a rash.  Red.  Not even a rash, particularly. Just big blotches and patches of red.  Nah, not red. Pink. Too faint for red. Nope. Not faint. There. Inescapable.  And, come to think of it, if we’re honest, and not trying to make the least of something, it’s red. Red. At his neck. Under his ears. On his chest. On his tummy.  I kept peering at him. He kept protesting.

I got my Book out.  Rashes With Fever.  Does Your Child Have A Fever? Yes.  Is the rash red, widespread, and vanishes when pressed? Yes. Does Your Child Have A Sore Throat? Yes.  = Scarlet Fever. See Your Doctor.  I looked at Son 1.  I looked at The Rash. I looked at The Book.  I looked at The Rash. I rang the Doctor. The receptionist was vaguely interested. “There’s only emergency appointments left. Is it an emergency?” “Well… he’s got a sore throat, a fever and a rash, and I’d like him someone to look at him today.”  ”Four Fifteen. You’ll have to come and wait.” “That’s fine.”  “So it’s sore throat and fever? His symptoms?” “And The Rash. On his neck. And his body.”  “Could you please just excuse me.  I’m putting you on hold. ”  I tum ti tummed. “Sorry, I can’t get the Duty Doctor. Can he ring you back?”  Of course he can. He rang. ”Bring him in now, I’ll have a look at him between appointments.” 

“Open wide. Say Aaaah. He’s got white spots on his throat and palate. Rashes are hard… that could be viral.. or… what’s his highest temperature been?” “37.9.  And 38 last night, but that was when he was in bed with all his covers on so I didn’t think it counted. But I don’t really do temperatures. I’ve just been giving him Calpol and Ibuprofen to help him when he’s clearly too hot.”  “Over 38 is probably an infection.  What do you think it is? Scarlet Fever?”  ”Well,” I said. “I’ve got this Book. And it says fever, sore throat and rash = Scarlet Fever.  And we’ve been on holiday so he’s been on a plane. And we spent a lot of time in a Spa Bath, and I’ve read somewhere they’re high risk for Scarlet Fever… and… if you tell me it’s not, I’ll be happy.” “It’s not one of those where you take chances,” he said, swabbing Son 1’s cheek. “Usually, if there’s any doubt, you don’t give children antibiotics. Except for suspected Strep, when you do. ” The printer buzzed. ”No school till at least a day after the rash goes and his temperature is normal.  No mixing with other children till you’ve had a clear day.” “What about Son 2?” I asked. “Oh if he’s getting it, he’s got it. Ring on Friday for the Swab result.” Outside, I rang The Man. I told the people we’d been with over the last few days.  Only suspected, I said. Could still be viral. Yes, he did…er.. go red before my very eyes.   At home, the boys watched telly. I made tea.  Son 1 couldn’t eat any. At bedtime, I took off his top to put him in the shower.   His back was shiny, coated in the rash.  No white bits. And I’ve kind of hunted here and there for the right word to describe the shade.  Deep red?  Crimson?  Nah, a just  a few shades pinker.  Vermilion? A bit too orangey.  Scarlet.  Definitely scarlet.

1.  Box

2.  Tea

3.  Rain

Son 1 aged 4y 7m wanted a Big Box to make a den from.  One of his friends has one. So I lugged a huge dishwasher box home from The Office on Monday, and we made it into a house this morning.  A stable door, a window with shutters, and a skylight were my contributions. Son 1 has written his name on it and made a picture to hang up wonkily inside.  Son 2 aged 19m has drawn on the sides in felt tip pen.  “Boh!” he said, pointing. “Boh!” They were supposed to be getting on with playing while I made pancakes for breakfast.  It worked, kind of.   I struggle with pancake making. I burn or undercook, I never get the oil right, I’m rubbish at flipping them.  Wonder Nanny knocks out perfect examples every time.  She doesn’t use oil. “It’s a non-stick pan.”  I never understood that logic, but this morning I went with it. No oil.  Perfect pancakes.  They gobbled them up. 

Son 2 is still in hell with chickenpox. He woke up this morning boiling hot, scratching and howling.  I gave him milk, put him in a bicarb bath and let the shower run on his back.   One set of Wednesday friends didn’t come today, but the Mother was ill, so I’m hoping that as the reason.  We walked into town to meet the other. There was a book about a character with Son 2’s (unusual) name in Oxfam, so I bought it.  And Son 1 had been promised a Pirate Lego set for being good while Son 2 got all the Mummy Time. “Boog!” said Son 2.  We had coffee at one end of town, and then another coffee at the other.  I spent most of the afternoon putting the Pirate Lego set together. That’ll be why the box said 6 - 12 then. I got fed up with how much time I was spending on Pages 1 - 37 instructions, with two other sections to follow. Son 1 said “Well done Mummy.  You’re doing a great job.  Thank you very much for buying me my pirates.”  The pat on the head did the trick, and I persevered.  Again, I started grumbling.  I wanted to spend time with Son 1 and Son 2, not fish poxy two-bit Lego brick things out of piles of other poxy two-bit brick things. ”Well done Mummy,” said Son 1.  “Thank you for helping me.”  My heart sang.  There was a knock on the door.  The Wednesday Mummy, taking pity on me because The Man’s Business Trip goes On and On, had brought round some home-made sauce for us.  “Tee!” pointed Son 2 at the pan as the pasta boiled. 

Books and Bath and Bed was therefore earlier and more successful than other days this week. I am still starting off with a glass of wine. Son 2 and I did his books. I wanted Tiddler. He insisted on “Oceans,” which is pictures of dolphins and sharks and whales and seahorses and jellyfish etc. In the bath I washed his hair to get today’s calamine out before I slathered him again. He screamed.   Surely this is the worst his spots can get. He has great flaming lines of them down his back and his groin is a mess. “Wee wee,” he said, sitting in the bicarb-ed bath.  Wee wee is wee, but it is also willy. Translation: “My willy hurts.”  And then he pointed up at the shower head and said:  “Rain.”

1.  I Told You I Was Trouble

2.  Trying To Fix You

3.  Sunshine On A Rainy Day

Son 2 aged 19m’s skin is awful.  The blisters are angry, red and wet.  Except the big ones behind his ear and on his willy, which are red round the bottom with a huge, wet, white blob on the top.  There are so many red blotchy ones in his nappy creases that they all run together in an inflamed red line.  They’re all over his head and today, they’ve just started popping out on his face.  Serve me right for being so precious about the scar on his lip.  Now he’s got a boil on his eyebrow and a crop of them on his cheek.  His nappy area is so bad that this morning I let him roam nappy free. He was in the kitchen playing with some toys, I was upstairs with the ironing. ”Wee wee!” I heard him call.  I went down.  He had pooed and weed in the big plastic toybox, smeared poo all over the sides, trod wee all around the kitchen and had brown smudges of poo on his legs.  Half an hour later he did another one, and this time smeared my posh pyjamas. I gave up and put us both in the shower. After I’d finished, he sat there with the shower trained on the spots on his back, staring ahead vacantly. 

I took him down to the Lounge to calamine him up.  He batted my hands away. Son 1 aged 4y 7m was interested in the cotton wool balls.  “You could paint Son 2’s spots if we found you a brush,” I said absently.  He vanished. Wonder Nanny and I continued with the task in hand.  Really hard.  Son 2 does not like being calamined. He is a fast, sure, controlled mover and we are no match for him.  Son 1 returned with a paintbrush.  I felt the bristles. “No you can’t use that on his spots. It’s too rough. I’ll go and find you a make up brush.” ” I like this one,” said Son 1. “It’s blue. “ When I came back down, Son 2 was standing naked in the sunshine on the windowseat, dabbing his own spots with a great wadge of cotton wool, while Wonder Nanny and Son 1 coloured in the rest of him.

I had booked leave today, and Son 1 wanted to go to the Aquarium. We arrived and had lunch. Son 2 was grouchy, whining and clingy. He’s eating very little at the moment, but grabbing sweet things whenever he can. There may be trouble ahead.  We went round, Son 1 chirping excitedly, Son 2 pointing and demanding to be lifted up. ”Dzar!” he can say, in a clear word meant to be Shark.  And, the triumph: “Ray!”  “Ray!” at the big rays. Clear, correct, and repeated at the top of his little boy voice, often.  Inspired, when I got home I wrote out all the words he can say.  He’s got a vocabulary of about 50 words, which I just didn’t realise.  All this time I’ve been Not Worrying Because Second Children Talk Later… when in fact he’s been building up his speech quite nicely.

1.  Spot The Difference

2.  Spot The Dog

3.  Hitting The Spot

I have a Lovely Chair.  Brown leather, lilo-like back, big round arms, and a matching stool.  It was chosen, way BC, after a lot of research, from John Lewis, Oxford Street.  Flipping through the big leather swatches on the furniture floor with the helpful salesman.  Ordered.  Made for us. Delivered.   The Man envies me my Lovely Chair, and wants to get another.  Wiped out by our gold-plated childcare, we never will.   This morning I left Son 1 aged 4y 7m and Son 2 aged 19m watching The Wiggles while I showered,  dressed, and did my hair and make up.  I was nearly finished, when a voice bellowed “Mummy!  Son 2’s done a wee!”  Son 2, who is seriously and sickenly spotty,  had removed his trousers and nappy, and was sitting bare-bottomed on my Lovely Chair, watching telly.  In a deep lake of wee.   The leather in the Lovely Chair is so good that none of it had soaked away.  So when I moved the cushion it all ran and spilled.    

Son 2’s spots are just awful.  There are hundreds of them.  I had to go to The Office, and rang home at lunchtime.  He was fine, said Wonder Nanny, who’d taken him out to her Mum’s to play with the cats. I picked up Son 1 so late I barely made it there before closedown.  “Did I stay till the end for a special treat?” he asked.  We were back embarrassingly late.  “Son’s had a really good day,” said Wonder Nanny. “No scratching, and laughing all day long.”  She left. Son 2 burst into tears and scratched his ears off.  A toy dalmatian pup, free with the Disney film, has emerged from the toy pile on its own. Son 1 played with it. We hunted out its mate. I took off Son 2’s trousers to change him, but he escaped and waddled, bare-legged into the hall. ”Son 2! I need to change that pooey nappy!”  The nappy landed on the changing mat with a heavy splat.  He really is getting good at taking his nappy off.  And he already knew how to throw.  

His groin is horrible, with blisters on his willy and in all his little baby creases.  They didn’t seem to bother him till I slathered them in calamine lotion and then he cried real tears.  We went upstairs and did Where’s Spot as one of our books.  I put a ton of bicarb in the bath, on the advice of a colleague from The Office.  Poor Son 2.  Spots all over his back with hardly any bare skin in between.  All over his front.  In his hair, in his ears, behind his ears. Poor miserable little sausage.  He cried and cried when I got him out of the bath, objected loudly  to the calamine and was then worn out and inconsolable.  Even though I was incredibly late getting them to bed, I was relaxed and patient all the way through.  Possibly linked to my swapping my usual bathtime cup of tea for a very large glass of Sauvignon Blanc.  A Marvellous Mummy Am I.

1.  Outbreak

2.  Outside

3.  Outcast

Son 2 aged 19m has had a pimple on his chest for the last four days.  A red, acne-style beacon, sitting there, shining, glowing. “If there were any more of those, I’d think he had chickenpox” I’d vaguely thought.  Son 2 has had odd spots before, none of which have turned out to be anything other than odd spots.  Yesterday, Son 2 was scratching behind his ear like a flea-bitten dog.  This morning, Son 2 had: spots behind his ears, spots in his ears, spots on his chest, spots on his head, spots on his back, spots on his upper arms, spots on his baby thighs and a big, horrid one right on his willy.    I texted Wonder Nanny, to tell her that the person with the NNEB training was in charge of putting calamine lotion on the wrigglest child in the world.  She rang back. On Friday, with still, just that lone blister, she’d stripped him naked and checked him all over, so sure was she then that he had chickenpox.

Son 2 slept.  We got the paddling pool out.   Son 1 aged 4yr 7m checked with Next Door to see if they’d managed to borrow a pump. Nope. But Next Door did know how to get into a coconut, so Son 1 scampered round, and sat out in the yard with Next Door Neighbour and a hammer.  They smashed it.  He brought it round our side, testing it. “I don’t like it. It’s like the milk.”  He went inside, I stayed outside to try to blow the pool up.  I managed, but it’s already got a hole in it.  From where i folded it.  After 15 minutes I went back into the house.  It was strangely quiet.  “Son 1!”  No answer.  “Son 1! Where are you?”  “Mummy I’m here,” came a strange, faraway voice.  Upstairs?  I went to the bottom of the first floor stairs. “Mummy!  Mummy!”  He sounded scared, which made me scared. “Where are you!”  “Out here!”  I peered downstairs.  A littleface peered in at the front door.  He’d gone out the front door and shut it. ”How long have you been out there?”  “Fifty years.”  Stuck.  Which, coincidentally, is a word Son 2 has started using only today.   Falling between the legs of the upturned toddler chair.  “Stug!  Stug!” 

After lunch, we went down to the Discount Store in search of a puncture repair kit. Stopping off for Nappies.  The Discount Store had sold out.  We headed back, past The Church, where it was Family Tea Time service day.  ”We can’t go,” I told Son 1. “Son 2 will give the other children chickenpox.” “I want to go,” said Son 1.  He scampered up the steps while I battled with the shopping and The Big Pram.  The Vicar and His Wife came out. “It’s good to see you. We don’t know how many others there’ll be.” Code for: No-one Else Is Here. As we went in, a few more families headed in through each door.  Enough for it not to be embarrassing.  The theme was Fish.  Right up Son 2’s alley.  Son 1 fished for magnetic fish in a (puncture free) paddling pool.  Son 2 made Hand Fish.  I drew round his hand, cut it out and then he earnestly squidged gold glitter paint on it.  Then we did Casting Your Net Over The Other Side.  And then tea. Fish Fingers.   Son 2 tipped a beaker of squash down his front, soaking his jumper and vest.  ”Oh dear,” said the Vicar’s Wife.  “Have you got any other clothes with you?”  “Just his coat,” I said. “I’ll change him when I do his nappy.”  “Oh you can change him here, no one will mind,” she said.  They will if they see The Plague Of The Boils, I thought, and retreated to the privacy of the tiny loo.

1.  Getting A Goal Back

2.  The Hall in the Squall

3.  A Lovely Boy

Grim, grisly, gruesome night.  I went to bed late and Son 2 aged 14 months woke howling at around 2am.  Around because I knew he was crying, but thought it was the morning and The Man would get him.  The Man snored by my side.  At 2.30am I snapped awake, looked at the clock and went down.  I think Son 2 is still suffering from the MMR - he’s still got his rash - so I gave him calpol and water, cuddled him, put the fan on and then did head-in-the-cot.  At 0310 I gave up.  Too tired and needed to go to bed.  I called The Man down, he got into bed with Son 2, I went upstairs to sleep.   One to Son 2.

Son 1 aged 4y 2m had a 4th birthday party - a child from Nursery - 20+ miles away on the other side of The Big Town.  We arrived at the Village Hall as a freezing squall blew in.  Two other families there, and no other cars.  In the (empty) hall, we compared notes.  I had the invitation in the car.  Back into the squall.  Son 2’s thin wisps looked Brylcreamed to his head.  We needed the Church Hall. Off we went, us in the front of the convoy.  Into the right Hall.  Say hello to Birthday Girl’s Dad.  There’s the changing bag, there’s the baby food bag.  Where’s the present?  Son 1 went in, Son 2 and I went back to the car.  Back at the Village Hall, there was a Mother, on foot, with small daughter, looking for the party.  I explained.  ”I thought it was strange,” she said.  “There was nobody here, but there was a present on the table with Birthday Girl’s name on it.”  The squall whipped our faces.  They got in my car.  Sand. Feathers. Pine cones. Leaves. Dried out baby wipes. Breadstick crumbs.  Two pairs of posh pointy shoes for The Office.  Hell.

Back at the party I took Son 2 to sit on the side, at the front, thinking he would enjoy the balloons.  There was a magician, with 15 small children sitting on the floor gazing up at him.  In the front row was Son 1, the only child in fancy dress. Captain Hook.  The Magician asked for a helper. Up shot Son 1’s hand.  Up he went.  He laughed, he giggled, he yes-ed, he no-ed, he laughed again, spellbound.  Back he went.  I watch him in profile for the rest of the act.  Face tilted up, eyes dancing, smiling, laughing, calling out.   “A lovely boy…” clad in a red tailcoat with lace at the sleeves, “but the most entrancing thing about him was that he had all his first teeth.”  That first teeth smile in profile, backlit from the windows high above him, was heaven.