Bernard woke up with crusty eyelids and purple shiners, but I thought I could get away with it and sent him to his childminder anyway. She’s the one who takes him to all these toddler groups, where he picks up nasty eye infections, so she can jolly well see him through it.
Meanwhile the carpet cleaning man arrived and got started on the feat of revitalising the hideous yellow carpet that seems to ooze vilely across all of our floors.[1] Thank goodness, then, that there was one room with a dry floor, because at 11.30 the CM brought Bernard back to me, ringing a bell and shouting unclean!
She always talks a lot, especially when she can see that dumping my child back on me when I’m supposed to be working and the house is in a child-unsuitable turmoil, while I have to keep on paying her not to mind him, is a bit of a problem for me. Once I got bored of listening, and sent her on her way, we tiptoed through the house to the bedroom, and discussed our plan. Our plan was to panic a bit.
Bernard then pointed out that if I gave him a bit of a feed, he would probably sleep for about 45 minutes, allowing me at least to clear my inbox. I agreed that this was an excellent idea, and shortly he was snoring on a pillow and I was back at my desk. The little scamp didn’t follow through on the deal, though, and woke up after half an hour. Luckily I had done the majority of my work, and had a helpful email from Pete advising me to pack up a picnic and leave the house for the rest of the day.
With Bernard’s lunch and two changes of nappy in the bottom of the pram, we then headed down to our new favourite pizzeria, where the Italian staff now greet the baby by name. We sat in the courtyard, the only customers braving the heavy grey skies, and enjoyed a glass of wine and a pizza, although I had more of the pizza, and Bernard had none of the wine. He had a cream cheese sandwich and all the olives off my Quattro Stagioni, in fact.
After lunch we still had an awful lot of hours to fill, so commenced a very slow stroll around town. We were browsing the board books at the back of the bookshop when my phone rang, and I found myself talking to someone I didn’t know, who, on hearing of our plight, matched it with her own: she was stuck at home with a baby in the later stages of chicken pox. I diagnosed it as non-infectious, as the spots had reportedly started scabbing over, and accepted her invitation for a cup of coffee (which was of course tea and a cinnamon danish, the latter provided by me).[2]
It took a good half an hour to walk down to her house, and Bernard took the opportunity for a nap, snuggled up in a fleecy hooded jacket despite the fact that the sun had finally come out. His weepy eyes had been making him grumpy, so I was glad he had nodded off. I parked him in the corner of our new friend’s garden, and we drank our tea and talked about bras.[3]
By the time Bernard awoke, the sun was quite wholeheartedly bearing down upon the astroturf lawn (I kid you not), and as I had brought out two nappies but no hat, he had to borrow a pink peaked cap from the new friend’s little girl. It looked very cute on. He was then given a choice between playing with a bowl of water, a ball pool, a slide, a swing, a seesaw, or a little car thingy that he could sit in and be pushed around by me. He took all of the above. Soon he was wet through and I was jolly happy that his nappy wrap is waterproof. I hung his jeans and t-shirt in the sun and they were dry by the time we left, but he did have to go out without a vest on, which seemed a little risk-ay.
Our next stop was the doctor, who confirmed the diagnosis of conjunctivitis and prescribed a gel, which proves impossible to apply, so I will be requesting drops next time. I asked his opinion on the OFSTED requirement for the CM to disinfect everything that Bernard had touched, and he actually banged his head on the desk. I’ve noticed before that he has a bit of a thing for melodrama. While we waited for our prescription, Bernard sat quietly on my knee with his head tucked into my chest, which was the first sign he had given of being a little bit under the weather. Normally he doesn’t sit still. He just doesn’t. Ever.
He didn’t eat much of his tea (potato cakes and chicken curry) and even flung his delicious nectarine on the floor, which was the second sign. Later that night I brought him into our bed, because he was so restless and feverish, and he tends to sleep much better when he’s in with us. He was still asleep when I left for work at 8.00, which when you consider that he normally wakes us at 5.30, ready to play, was most definitely the third sign. So now we have a sick baby.
- all except the bedroom, which has an ancient, papery green covering, that I plan to replace with jute. [↩]
- The reason I was phoned by someone I didn’t know is that I am organising a Bra Fitters Workshop for our local NCT branch, and she is one of the trainees. She had some ideas and some dates and a lot to talk about. [↩]
- see above footnote [↩]
You’ve left me on the edge! Now I’m nervous. What’s he sick with? What’s the melodramatic doc worried about? Do the chicken pox figure in with this? WHAT HAPPENS AT THE END?
I think I’ve been reading too much Harry Potter 6.
Oh, sorry. I thought I had finished. The doctor is just making a point about OFSTED’s over-the-top hygiene requirements. Bernard has been poorly all weekend, with a fever and general misery, but has no spots so we’re assuming it’s not chicken pox, just a bad cold.