A chicken pox tinged "what I do all day".

A few days ago, after over a week of being mum to the most miserable baby for miles around, I noticed a few spots on my 16 month old child's face. At first I put it down to extra energetic garden ramblings, possibly through some sort of slightly prickled plant, but when I got him ready for a bath that evening, my fears were confirmed; chicken pox. It's amazing how quickly it takes hold, even after only a few hours they are literally everywhere, from head to toe, in places you never knew spots could exist. The poor boy even has spots inside his mouth and on his tongue. 


So like the good mother I am, I headed down to the local baby clinic on Thursday to get his diagnosis confirmed. Now, in hindsight, this was a stupid thing to do, but all the GPs were on strike and I wanted to be sure it was the pox rather than rabies, yellow fever, bubonic plague or some other common virus. I was greeted at the door of the clinic as I can imagine a leper would have been treated circa 1205AD.  "You can't come in here", chimed the health visitor glowering at me furiously, "this is a WELL child clinic." I resisted the urge to question why anyone with a well child would take them to a clinic and said, "I just want someone to confirm he has chicken pox and the GPs are on strike. "They will see emergencies" the wise one snapped before slamming the door in mine and my baby's spotty face.  I trudged with the leperous one over to the doctors only to be greeted by a slightly warmer but still, noticeably perturbed receptionist who offered me an appointment but said I would have to wait in the car. I glanced outside and noticed the rainfall heavier than Niagara Falls and she relented and said I could wait in an unused GPs room.  I was quite familiar with that particular GP as my older son had vomitted all over her Karen Millen shift dress only a few months earlier. 

Anyway, Son 2 ransacked the room for ten minutes while I sat fuming about my encounter with the HV and rehearsing what I SHOULD have said. Long story short, he has chicken pox. I don't really know why I bothered going to be honest.

Poor leperous one

Anyway, following the popularity of my What I do all day post, I thought I would let you have a snippet of my typical chicken pox day.


3am - awoken to screaming, akin to murderous crime scene. Go to Son 2's room. Try to console him, get whacked in the chops and kicked in the ear. Lay on the bed staring at him for five minutes. Get him some milk, go back to bed.
5am - more screaming, yelling and general anger. Go to Son 2's room to find him scratching furiously. Trim his nails, get more milk.
6am - the screaming is increasing. Get up, pick up Son 2 and put on cbeebies, it hasn't quite started, feel depressed about this fact for several reasons.
6.30 - the screaming ceases, do a little dance (in my head). Try to avoid getting whacked in the eye by Postman Pat's van.
7am - Son 1 wakes up and comes in complaining about the noise, he has a headache, wants peace and quiet. He slams the door and stomps off back to bed. I feel envious.
7.25 - Son 2 starts cuddling me, very unusual for him, then I realise he is using me as a human scratching post for his chicken pox spots. Apply some very expensive gel the chemist assured me was "the best", Son 2 coos with relief, then feel guilty for a moment about thinking chemist was money grabbing maniac.


That's all for now...it's making me depressed.