We have a new addition to the family. It’s not pretty, doesn’t have very good social skills and certainly won’t be invited back any time soon.
Frog has chicken pox.
There’s something really annoying about chicken pox. It’s not the spots, which probably aren’t too comfortable. It’s not the contagious nature of it, which means a week confined inside the house. And it’s not the grizzles and bad moods it causes.
No, the really infuriating thing about chicken pox is the sleepless nights.
After more than six months of blissful twelve or thirteen hour stretches of deep sleep through the night, Frog has reverted back to her newborn ways. Last night was the worst yet, with a call at midnight, 2am, 4am and 5am. Each “call” lasted around 45 minutes, causing me unrivalled joy. Obviously.
The thing is, all she wants is a cuddle. As her mum, that’s my job. I know she feels a bit rotten (although you wouldn’t know it to look at her during the day, carrying on playing and exploring as usual), so I diligently get up and pad into her room to snuggle up with her as she falls back to sleep in my arms. Sounds almost pleasant doesn’t it? It’s not. It’s bloody annoying.
This chicken pox fella has ruined my social plans for the next couple of evenings. I was looking forward to a night in London, meeting other bloggers at The Gurgle Blog Awards (I was invited, seeing as I’m a finalist in the funny blog category – despite not feeling too “funny” at the moment), but have had to ditch the glamour in favour of an evening in my pants on the sofa, waiting for the baby to wake.
And we were going to meet up with friends in town tomorrow evening for the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine’s birthday. But that’s been put on hold in favour of an evening at a pub in our village, in case Frog wakes up and terrorises the babysitter. Which is extremely likely.
But that’s what you sign up for when you become a mum, isn’t it? As much as I’d love to sink a couple of cocktails and put a pretty dress on tonight, I couldn’t have fun knowing I’m three hours away from my daughter, who’s screaming the house down with “Mamamamamama” as she writhes around in her cot, just wanting a cuddle from her mum.
Call me soft, but I just can’t do it.
So that’s my weekend sorted then. I’ve got a hot date with the sofa and Mr Chicken Pox. Here’s hoping the cocktails remain faithful to me until next time.