Two days ago, on the 31st of December, I decided to make the same New Year’s Resolution that I made a year ago. To write something every day. Thus this blog. Yesterday, on the 1st of January, I immediately broke my re-hashed but nonetheless new New Year’s Resolution by writing diddley-squit. This might have been the perfect occasion to give up and never write a word ever again, never ever, forever. Not even ‘eggs’ on the shopping list. But today is the 2nd of January 2011 and here I am, painstakingly writing this on my phone, which means using the delete button every other word and giving myself a headache from scanning back and forth between the tiny screen and the even tinier keyboard. Not to mention getting severe cramp in my thumb. You can’t say I’m not determined.
But why? Why such torturous, slow, activity? Because I am in hospital. I’m fine, if depressingly sleep-deprived. It’s my daughter who is not fine. She’s running a ridiculously high fever, especially for a 3 week old. What? Daughter? 3 weeks old? What? Who? When? Where? How? Why?
The 7th of December 2010.
Aubenas, the Ardèche, France.
Because we decided we wanted a second child.
So there you have it. She is new. Brand new. She is gorgeous and beautiful and a champion burper. Lying in a little hospital cot with drops dripping into her little arm. She has an infection but they don’t know whereabouts in her body. No signs of an ear infection nor a lung infection. They’re running tests for meningitis just in case. I won’t sleep until I get the results later on this evening. I am crossing fingers and everything else physically crossable that it’s just a urinary tract infection, the results of which take 48 hours. No matter what, they’re keeping us here for at least three days. Happy New Year.
Meanwhile, my little boy is also really ill, at home with his Daddy, wondering why Mummy isn’t coming home this evening like she said she would. I honestly thought my little girl just had a snotty-nosed cold and that her body was over-reacting in a feverish, drama queen way, like mother, like daughter. But sadly, no. She really is very poorly.
The bed in here – the one provided for parents to sleep overnight – is about 2 centimetres wide. Maybe they thought that they would be nursing stick insect babies with their stick insect parents sleeping the night. Until now Léonie has been sleeping in my bed at home, so I don’t how I’m going to wing tonight. Her cot looks more comfortable than the lollipop stick they’re hoping will pass for a bed. A nurse just came by and explained that Léonie might sleep through the night, following the torture they put her through trying to insert a tiny tube into her tiny veins and then taking the sample from her lower backbone (they sent me out for that bit and let me stew in the corridor), so my breasts will no doubt explode with milk overload, leaving the Ardèche drenched and dripping. Ah, but they have a breast pump they can lend me. Great. Oh… but it’s not a hand pump, it’s a pneumatic cow milker that will leave my boobs hanging down to my knees. Hmm, so I shall ignore their instructions to leave Léonie flat on her back all night and shall squeeze a milky nipple into her mouth as she sleeps. In any case, who are they fooling? No child of mine would ever forego their milk and sleep through the night so young. I reckon she’ll be snortling for a feed in an hour’s time; just as I start to doze off.
In fact, I should stop squinting at my phone screen and try to get some kip so I shall end this entry.
Basically, a year ago I wrote a) that I would write EVERY DAY, and that b) I would NOT fall pregnant in 2010. Ha ha ha. So much for resolutions. Which is why this year I have already broken my New Year’s Resolution by not writing anything yesterday. That way I might just still be writing regularly in 12 months time. Hum ho, 12 months time… Léonie will be walking and emptying cupboards and roaring for her Mummy each time I leave the room.
I’m still crossing my fingers.
Happy New Year.