Saturday, 18 October 2014

hand, foot and mouth and a finger splint

 A funny old day was yesterday. First of all, Baby A woke up with a rash around his mouth. It didn't look great. I made an appointment to see our doctor and over the morning the rash took off like great guns around his little mouth, chin and neck, until I had a realisation. I checked his hands. Yep, spots all over them. They hadn't quite reached his feet, but I was pretty sure we had a hand foot and mouth situation. The doctor later confirmed it, and also said they were inside his mouth too. Poor little thing!

SO it was only a matter of time before Baby J started showing signs, and sure enough, around midday a little spread of spots had appeared on his chin and he had a fever at bedtime. Fabulous! Oh well, a little more sleep deprivation couldn't hurt anyone. Actually, it's funny how, once you realise your baby is unwell, that you feel suddenly adrenalized and ready to do whatever it takes to comfort them. Does anyone else find that?

The other brilliant thing that happened yesterday was this:

This is a picture of my right pinky finger and associated bruising around and beneath my wrist after an unfortunate injury a couple of days ago. It's a really pathetic story. But I shall indulge you, if only to illustrate a bit of irony.

One night, earlier in the week, I was having the usual struggles with my babies. Baby A in particular was a big challenge. No sooner had I settled him down with blessed patting and shushing, trying not to nod off beside his cot, then creeping down the stairs and daringly tucking myself in on my makeshift bed (i.e. the lounge), then he'd pipe up with his wailing again. At which point I'd throw back my blanket and hot-foot it up the stairs again before he woke the other kids up. It was that crazy-making stuff again.

Well, on this night, it happened to be really windy. And the door to the room he is sleeping in has this annoying cracking sound whenever it creaks in the draught. We wedge the door shut with a sock or similar to make sure it is shut tight, as the silly thing has a broken latch and won't shut properly without help. But the wind on this night was really strong, making big draughts that forced the door open again.

Anyway, so after being up and down  A LOT already, I had once again settled back into my bed and felt the delicious, tired, sleepiness wash over me. I definitely had a couple of hours now, I thought to myself. 

Then I heard the chuffing door creak again, VERY LOUDLY,  enough to make me snap to attention. It was swiftly followed by Baby A's wailing. I threw back my blanket, devastated and furious.

'I hate that door!' I hissed at Husband, who was all snuggled up in his make-shift bed (i.e. mattress on the floor) next to me. 'That f*#*ing door!' I then stormed up the stairs, cursing colourfully before pausing dramatically halfway up them to slam my fist on one in frustration. It hurt a bit. Being made out of concrete and all.

Anyway, that is not how my injury occurred. A couple of days later, my sister and I were exchanging sleep-deprivation-craziness stories, about our antics in the wee hours of the night. I stood in front of her, demonstrating my foolish behaviour as I ranted up the stairs, pounding my fist in mid-air to really nail the crazy part. Now for some reason, my left knee got in the act at this point, raising instinctively to meet my right fist. They collided in mid-air and caused me to gasp. This totally killed my story.

'That hurt,' I said, noticing it instantly swell and kind of kink to the side.

Well within a couple of hours the bruising you can see in the photo had appeared and I thought it all looked a bit suspect, though I strongly doubted anything serious had occurred. I mean, I was just telling a story, right? I just happened to be really bad at it. Just to be sure, while I was at the doctor with Baby A, I asked her what she thought about the injury.

Many hours later, after going for x-rays and then back to my doctor for a referral to a hand specialist, then over to the hand specialist, all the while lugging my poor diseased-faced baby about and my very patient, eldest son, I am now sitting at home with my pinky in a splint. For 8 weeks. 'And don't get it wet,' I was told.

Just to get this straight, what happened was this: pounding actual hard concrete stair with my bare hand - NIL injury. Describing said act in comedic way - fracture to pinky finger. FFS.

Don't worry, I've got my glass of wine.

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