Saturday 27 March 2010

In which a weekend is full of hope and possibility...

So last Sunday was the bf's birthday, which we celebrated by going to Benihana in Swiss Cottage. Totally hot, totally bonkers. But last weekend was also flu weekend, and the weekend bf worked on a Saturday (groan). He came home mid-afternoon and as if to defy our acheing and ailing bodies we bundled everyone to Brent Cross. Big Mistake. It was heaving. We were sick. Nuff said.

This week though, we have turned a corner. I took Monday off sick to recover, and also to witness the bf do the Most Sensational Spring Clean In The World Ever. (How seriously cool is that? I'm still numb with the knowledge that I am possibly the luckiest woman in the world.) And we've both survived a seriously tough week at work.

So now we have reclaimed our house from the builders - tho' obviously they still haven't finished the snag list yet - we are ready to move the kids in to their new bedrooms this weekend. And we are both well. And it's going to be a lovely spring day. Huzzah!

Saturday 20 March 2010

In which mummy is totally rumbled

This morning as I surveyed the dustbin that is our home, I gathered up every last bit of kiddy artwork I could find and disposed of it without so much as an afterthought.

This afternoon though, as I was in a flu coma on the sofa Jasmine entered the living room clutching a piece of crumpled artwork close to her bosom and said in a very solemn and challenging tone (think Mrs. Harbord from Ladette to Lady):
"Who
Threw
This
In
The
Bin?"

I felt like a naughty schoolgirl. And the fact she didn't accuse me directly made it worse. I grovelled an apology, promised never to throw anything of hers away again without asking, and eventually (reluctantly) she let me give her a kiss to say sorry. Babymomma is off the hook. Until the next time...

Wednesday 10 March 2010

More Marrakech



Unstructured hate rant about hospitals and all who work in them...

Well, to begin with, no one treats you like a human being. In fact, if you are the relative of a patient you are less than a human being. Less than a thing. You are goddam invisible. At least the patient, that biohazardous mass of chemical reactions and intrigue represents a thing to be processed through the system (or if the patient is ill enough in a sufficiently rare or unusual way so as to present some kind of medical enigma, then it is a challenge, to be solved.) No one tells you where things are, who they are or How Things Work. Silly things, which the mother of a deeply sick child might want to know. Like, when mealtime is? Where mealtime is? Where to get drinking water? Who to tell if you have to leave your child to have a wee or get some food for yourself? Whether anyone will bother to look out for your child while you are away? Other things no one can tell you are why has a not-quite-4-year-old been put on a bay for older kids. (To the chavvy, slummy, scowling 17 year old in the bed opposite and your coterie of boyfriends with their irritating D'n'B ring tones and constant tirade of F-words, I don't care how ill you are, I really don't like you.) Nurses, at least, do tell you their name. And smile. And try to make the kids laugh.

Which is more than I can say for doctors. Particularly consultants. To you, I say learn to speak English. No-speak-a-dee-latiny-doctory-bullshit. If I ask What were the results of her bloodtest? I do not want you to cite reams of meaningless raw data. I want to you say what is normal, and what is not. And if things are not normal, I want you to say what the implication is, and what the next steps are. In Plain English. And, if you come round to me and my daughter on your ward round, please do me the courtesy of looking me in the eye first, introducing yourself and explaining who the 10 other people are too.

To student doctors, I have given Jambeans' history 12 times already so I say Sod Off. We are not your guinea pigs. You can blame A&E and their crap, repetitive system for my utter reluctance to help train the next generation of emotionless medicos.

To the Accident & Emergency system that times their process perfectly to wake you up every 70 minutes exactly (or, more frequently if you are super special) to do something to Jambeans that leaves her no further forward, but successfully deprives you both of sleep in the most tortuous way, I say FUCK YOU ALL. I brought Jambeans in a t 9pm on Monday night because she was severly dehydrated. Something that was confirmed by every SHO and Registrar who saw her. So why, 7 hours later, had she still not been offered a drink or given any IV fluids? I could have succeeded better at home, and got more sleep for both of us.

To the A&E Reg who tried to put a canular into Jambeans twice, and failed twice, I say - FAIL. Go home love, you're not good enough.

To Kate and Ellie, the paramedics, I say - you are both very lovely and I deeply admire the work you do.

To Jambeans I say you are the bravest, sweetest little girl in the whole wide world. Mummy is so glad you are out of hospital and wants you to rest up and get better soon.

Tuesday 9 March 2010

Marrakech

To cut a long story short

So, I should be writing about the drama and adventure that was Marrakech, and posting one or two of our billion photos. But instead, I am writing about the drama that is Jambeans, ill, in hospital, with pneumonia, again. Total shit for everyone involved.