I am exhausted with a lack of sleep and a surfeit of worry.
Four weeks ago, DD got norovirus. It was disgusting, noisy, and plain debilitating. She just about got over that, when two weeks ago, she got croup. Croup! At the age of nearly-ten. We soldiered on through that and the bone-chilling barking cough which accompanies it. She mustered on.
Two nights ago, she complained her throat was sore. I thought it was the usual mid-term slump kicking in and put her to sleep. She came to our bed in the middle of the night, begging for cuddles. She was absolutely burning up and within a few minutes of holding her, both of us were sweaty and gross. Down the hall I stumbled in search of paracetamol and ibuprofen. You think I’d learn to keep them in my night-stand by now!
She’s been in agony for two days, fighting the fever and not being able to swallow properly without severe pain. I know she’s just got to ride it out but it’s hard to tell her that. I’m her mother and I’m supposed to have magic skills which makes the pain go away, only I don’t, and I can’t. I’m struggling with my fallibility as much as I’m struggling with her pain.
This month has triggered memories of her early months, where we possibly spent more time in hospital than we did at home. When we functioned on adrenalin. When I squashed every emotion, every thought, every fear into a Pandora’s box. I’m ten years older, and hopefully a little wiser now, and I know the repercussions of those actions, but my instinct is to not voice my fear, in the hope that by not naming it, it will not escalate, and it will go away. Far, far away.
Motherhood is not for the faint of heart.