I'd hoped to be able to tell you, dear readers, that all my assignments were in.
Sadly, this is not the case.
I am NEARLY there.
I thought it would be done yesterday.
But I hadn't thought about three nights in hospital with one small boy, or thought of vomit in the middle of the night, or thought of one very sleep deprived Mummy, or one boy not at preschool.
I hadn't thought of these things.
But they happened, none the less. And we have survived. I'm so, so grateful for a public health system that means we didn't have to take out a loan for my son to be seen by a skilled Osteo surgeon and his team. I'm very grateful that he didn't have to have surgery, as they thought he might. I'm very grateful my local doctor has been able to change his antibiotics so there is no more vomit. And I'm very grateful my boy is getting better! VERY grateful. Very thankful. And very tired.
Tired of his behaviour, which got steadily worse during our sojourn away from home. My mum's theory, which seems appropriate, is that the more he's had to deal with things done to him/happening to him that are out of his control, the more he's wanted to be in control, and therefore the more attitude we are getting. Fairly 'normal' pre-schooler behaviour, just a lot more of it than we usually get. Not a good combination with two tired, stressed, nearly-at-the-end-of-the-study-year parents (seriously, I suspect my behaviour has not been any better than his a few times the past few days).
Tired of trying to get him to have antibiotics which to all accounts taste foul. FOUR. TIMES. A. DAY. At least thirty minutes before food and two hours after food! For FOUR weeks. FOUR. WEEKS. Oh my, oh my. Three days and I am over it. I'll leave you to imagine how the three and a half year old feels.
The antibotics we are stuck with. Believe me, if I could find another solution, I would. But he's got a bone infection, and it pays to take these things seriously.
NOTE TO PARENTS/GRANDPARENTS/TEACHERS/ETC:
If a child between 3-8yrs old has a limp and a temperature, head to your GP, or if on the weekend follow our lead and go to the after hours clinic. Take books. You will probably be referred to your local hospital. You might spend six hours in Accident and Emergency. You may have to hold your poor screaming baby while they poke and prod and try (multiple times) to get a blood sample, then an IV line in. But it will be worth it. Do it early. My boy is getting better because we got him in early (and because a huge amount of people prayed with us). I didn't even know it was a major problem. I just knew 'something' wasn't right. Very glad I didn't wait till Monday. Munchkin is doing okay. The washing is dry. I have to remember to pick up antibiotics next Wednesday. And finish that last report off before Friday.
Oh, and another note to anyone planning (HAHAHAHA!) a visit to hospital: coming home on Guy Fawkes night is really not the greatest timing. You will want to sleep. It will be loud. Very loud. Almost loud enough for you to wish you stayed another night in hospital. But then you will hopefully remember (as I did) the rather firm couch/bed thingy for parents, the not-nearly-dark-enough hospital room, the two-three hourly nurses visits, the non-ability to open windows, the lack of food (kids fed, parents not), and general feeling of stress and anxiety of having a sick child. And you will tell yourself to grow up and be grateful that you can sleep in your own bed, even if you do have to wait for three hours till 11pm to do so.
Seriously, if you know parents who are with sick kids in hospital, take them a care package. Lunch, or some biscuits. Or a nice hot casserole in a ramekin. They need it. And chocolate, they probably need a lot of that too! Someone delicious brought us a chocolate cake today and stayed to play for an hour. Oh, how I needed that (chocolate and company). Someone equally amazing made us a beautiful dinner on Tuesday night (the night we got home): bacon and silverbeet pie, carrot sticks, bean salad, little sausages for Munchkin, a nice hot-bread-shop bread, and even some little deserts. All presented in gorgeous baskets and given with prayers, and a hug. Amazing. What a difference it made. It wasn't just the food. Don't get me wrong, I am always a grateful recipient of food I didn't have to make, but there's another dimension that I think is even more important. Someone cared enough about us, and thought enough about what we were going through, to do something thoughtful for us. Plus, the chocolate cake was a great bribe to get the pre-schooler to eat at least a little of his dinner! Grin. Then there was our Pastor who came and prayed with us, the people who text, the brothers who called, the sister (in law) who chatted on the phone, the friend who came and let my son play games on her phone...plus of course the nurses, doctors, and the amazing parents of other sick kids. And the playroom. I love children's wards. If I ever have to go to hospital myself, I want to be a child. They have a new activity room in our hospital, and play therapists come and work in it during week days. SUCH a huge blessing. They even take toys to children who can't make it to the playroom. Munchkin, of course, just loved the train track, and the machines books. And playing with the other kids. Mummy enjoyed not having to think of something else to do. The playroom is my second favourite place in the hospital. The first? The roof-top garden, discovered when I went in to have Munchkin. It has fish. It has paths to follow and seats to sit on. You can see the road, and watch cars. You can feel the breeze and listen to the birds. It is lovely.
I look forward to seeing you all soonish...I've got a humungous pile of photos waiting for blog posts, and hopefully the writing bug will re-emerge to dazzle (or otherwise) you all once more!