I is for…

Illness.

Being ill is rubbish isn’t it? But Atleast as grown ups we can say we feel terrible and do something about it. Take some tablets, make a hot toddy or go to bed. But this isn’t the case for a baby. Ours especially.
We had her in a great routine, starting to sleep in her cot more with nightmares (n is for….!). But now we’ve inherited a needy, clingy, whinge machine. Who at times shows she wants to be her usual happy self. But she just can’t.
Can’t be left alone. Doesn’t know what to do with herself. It’s completely knocked her routine out, just as we get over all this coughy, coldy, snotty nonsense we get another I. Injections.
Here we go. Back to square 0. I say zero because we’d barely got back to square one.
When we’re I’ll we want sympathy, help and most of all comfort. I guess being a baby is no different. Just the clothes are much smaller.

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Dad. Out

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