Saturday was wonderful – Rowan’s birthday, music class, roast lamb and pavlova for a late Invasion Day celebration with Ian and Kat. At 3am on Sunday, though, Claire woke up screaming. She screamed on and off for the next, oh, let’s see, nine hours or so. She thrashed in pain, she farted, she groaned, she wept. It’s indicative of how spoilt we are as parents that this is completely unprecedented.

We suspect she picked up the gastric bug Cian had, especially when her temperature soared later in the afternoon. Scary part was that she lost her sense of humour. “Quit yer bellyachin’,” I said, and her father blew raspberries on various limbs, but she didn’t even crack a smile(1). The only time she was not in severe discomfort was when she was in the bath.

She didn’t talk to us all morning. It was awful.

She and her sense of humour came back to us in the evening, when we walked down to Muddy Waters while Jeremy’s shepherd’s pie(2) was baking. At the cafe she sang loud recuperative songs while sorting real estate flyers. When we got home she ate pie, two oranges and a piece of toast, drank apple juice, milk and water and played frenetically with her train set (or as she calls it, TRAIN, WOO WOO). Jeremy has just taken her off to bed. She’ll be fine.

Sickest she’s ever been, though. Be still my beating and so forth.

1. Maybe the joke was terrible, but the raspberries were unimpeachable.

2. The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want …for PIE.

Leave a Reply

Comments are closed.