NHS week

I'm having an NHS-kind of a week. I spent Saturday night in A & E with daughter one and every night since Sunday I have been propped up in bed with a very upset toddler on top of me which resulted yesterday in a trip to the GP. The baby has a cold, but he appears to have developed a phobia of any form of medication. Not only does he shake his head vigorously as I approach with the bottle, but he grits his teeth so you can't get the pipette thing in. If you do manage to find a chink, he throws his head back and makes a gagging noise and spits out most of the medicine before promptly throwing up the rest half a minute later.

I have had long conversations with him about the joy of medicine. I have tried different flavours and different types, but he is having none of it. As far as he is concerned the only medicine he wants is a cuddle from Mummy, which is all very well, but makes him even hotter.

His sisters are now showing signs of coldiness so it can only be a matter of time before they succumb. I am due at the GP again on Monday with daughter one. Why is it that GP visits, like buses, always come in threes or fours? There seem to be certain periods of the year when you feel no-one is ever going to be well again.

Meanwhile, while I am spending most evenings pinioned under the baby, the other children are getting on with their various interests. Daughter two has been researching make-up tips on Youtube. She has concocted her own perfume [it is strawberry-coloured. She describes it as "unique" and feels it could catch on. I have no idea what is in it, but I think most of the contents from the bathroom, including Derbac]. She has also created a lake for her small blue nose teddy bear things. It come with a white cover, which apparently is symbolic of ice in case they want to skate. Daughter three has inevitably been organising another sleepover. She sent me an invitation. Apparently this will occur on Saturday. I did warn her that the baby might not be well by Saturday, but she was not deterred. I found a note under her pillow in an envelope marked "For Mummy". It details in list form all the requirements for the Saturday extravaganza. She has been lobbying for a better midnight feast by telling me that her grandmother has "much more stuff" [read that as much more sugary stuff]. She has also been emailing me beautiful messages about how happy she is about the Saturday sleepover. That girl will be a master politician.

Daughter one found out about the sleepover and daughter three said she could come, but not to inform daughter two, her arch enemy. Daughter one politely declined, realising that a sleepover with a teething, sick baby may not be the kind of thing that a pre-teen would relish.

My partner meanwhile is looking more and more tired. I think he is fine. I'm not sure we've spoken much in the last few days. The world is becoming slightly hazy and surreal and I'm no longer quite sure when daytime is. I'm hanging on in there for Christmas, even though I know that, like the night time, it offers no real prospect of rest.