The torture of sleep deprivation

The pixies have been poorly. It’s been about five and a half weeks since I had more than about 45-minutes of uninterrupted sleep. There have been far too many nights where I’ve had a total of two hours sleep. I don’t know how I’m still standing. As it is, the world is a little hazy and I have a tendency to zone out and concentrate on the tinnitus that’s taken up residence in my left ear.

Little was first. She succumbed to tonsillitis, which is horrible as an adult let alone as a tiny person. She shared her germs with Medium, who, always a generous child, thoughtfully passed them back to Little when she’d finish with them.

Big managed to evade the evil pus-filled tonsils until school was out. The following morning, her temperature started to climb and we made our second trip to the out of hours service in a week. Of course, she then refused to take her antibiotics and had to see a second out of hours doctor the following day to get an alternative.

By Monday, her temperature, though still up, was a little more stable and we set off for Center Parcs where Medium decided to throw a few new spiking temperatures and a few vomiting sessions to keep us on our toes. Big, not to be outdone, developed the cough of doom. We left early.

Today, all three have been seen at our doctors’ surgery and all three have shiny new bottles of antibiotics to combat their rattling chests and spiking temperatures. Merry bloody Christmas to us. Lovely Husband and I are also coughing up a lung every so often, but apparently, my cough is viral. HOW DO THEY KNOW? How do they discern the difference between our children’s coughs and ours?

I am not the type of mum that panics. I thanked my religious viewing of Casualty and Holby City for giving me the foresight to turn off the engine when I was upside down in my car with an arterial bleed and my hand de-gloved. Likewise, when the kids are poorly, I don’t panic and follow my instinct. Until the thermometer says 40 degrees, and then I panic that they’ll fit. If they start throwing up at the same time, I’m dialling 111 quicker than a… Well, a very speedy dialler.

As I prepare for another night of soothing a whimpery Big, trying to stay awake while a hot and fractious Little dozes on my shoulder (feeling the flutters of the Miracle make this quite a special time) and then attempting to get a few hours of zzzs while Medium (who has taken up residency in our bed as she can’t possibly sleep without Mummy when she’s poorly!) lies across me and flings her many stuffed friends at my head, I am most thankful for Lovely Husband. While he can sleep through the nocturnal nursing that the smalls demand (how? How does he do that?!), he’s getting up every morning and leaving me to go back to sleep.

If only he could administer me a general anaesthetic, I think he might just be perfect.

A very Merry Christmas to you all, and a happy and HEALTHY New Year.

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The torture of sleep deprivation

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