So in the last week I've had to deal with Archie's first cold. I honestly didn't think it would be such a stressful affair!
He seems to have picked up a cold from Darling Dad, meaning he has a snuffly nose, sore throat and a horrible, hacking cough.
I remember in my previous life as a teacher, laughing with Darling Dad about the paranoid parents out there with their precious little darlings...sadly it would appear I've now become what I once mocked.
In the past week I have a) cried. A lot. b) taken the poor lad to the doctors. Three times. I'm considering going again. Just in case. c) Had by boob first coughed, then sneezed, then puked on in swift succession. Go breastfeeding. d) cried again when the clinic told me had lost an ounce in weight and therefore plummeted down the centiles (centiles meant bugger all to be pre-Archie, now they are my life). e) sprayed salt water up my sons nose in the hope it might somehow help him (hint - if salt water really helped a snuffly nose wouldn't grown ups use it like all the time?) and then been puked on again.
Archie, I'm happy to say, has improved greatly (though his cough, and therefore the threat of puking on my boob, remains). And I have learned an important parenting lesson. I love my son so much I want to be poorly for him. Don't get me wrong, I love Darling Dad, and when he is poorly I want to help him get better but would I happily take on that sore throat and cough for him? Hells no. On a more practical note, I have learned that as long as he eats, poos and wees, my son is probably fine. Which the doctor told me as I dragged Archie in there for the third time (while she drafted the restraining order, presumably).