I'm writing this from my bubble bath. In my house, in England. If you've been keeping up with me on Twitter, you'll know we cancelled our holiday. Lil got sick.
Since last Wednesday she has seemed off, I assumed it was her teething. She got worse on Thursday so I booked her in to the doctors for Friday. Her appointment was at 12:40, mine at 1pm. Forty minutes after her scheduled appointment time and after me having to cancel my cervical screening (for the third time in six weeks), we saw the doctor. She has an upper respiratory tract infection. Flying would be more uncomfortable for her but we could still go on holiday. She could get worse, she could get better. She was prescribed paracetamol (It turns out she can't fly with that, just another ill informed diagnosis. Fuck you, NHS)
I mulled this over and my instinct was telling me we couldn't go. I won't bore you with all the things that were running through my head but flying with a sick baby just wasn't an option.
It was definitely the right decision, four very tough, sleepless nights in. I just couldn't have dealt with this situation in a foreign place. And to top off her infection, she's still teething.
Am I upset we couldn't go? No. My daughters health simply isn't worth the risk.
I've had a really hard few days and not a lot of sleep. Today has been super difficult because, although I thought I knew what a tantrum was when clearly I didn't, she has been having real tantrums today. Toddler tantrums. My baby isn't much of a baby anymore.
Anyway, back to the bath. She's just had a nasty, throw herself back tantrum. I'm out of puff (not weed, stupid) so I've been told to 'go away' (charming). I'm having a bubble bath, I haven't had one of these for a while. Let's hope she gets better soon and we can spend this week doing some fun things like looking in to boarding schools.
If not, Mama's just going to hide in the garage with a case of wine and Emmerdale reruns on the iPad. I think it's Daddy's turn for a mental breakdown...