The inevitable has happened and Sam has come down with the Dreaded Lurgy.
What started out as a bit of a cough and snuffle has rapidly developed into a very nasty bug indeed; he’s already on antibiotics for an infection and we are horribly aware that if he doesn’t show signs of picking up soon then IV’s will be necessary.
This is not a route we would like to go down, mostly because I don’t want to see my boy that poorly and secondly because Sam hates having IV’s (he’s brilliant at removing them… honestly, it looks like something small has been slaughtered).
While we can do something about the bacterial infection, a virus just has to run its course; calpol and ibuprofen being dosed regularly.
As we’ve entered the evening, my boy is twitching, jerking and lashing out with the seizure activity, tears rolling down his beautiful little face. And I am utterly powerless to do a d*mn thing about it to help him.
Its times like this when you realise the comfort that a cuddle from Mum or Dad can bring – Sam loves his cuddles, always has, and while Mum is usually preferred for general snuggling, I struggle to hide my emotions seeing my boy suffering like this, so its Daddy he wants to be held by.
Daddy is his hero; strong, calm and always there when he’s needed.
I read something on Facebook the other day, the nights are long but the years are short.
And yet, in a matter of weeks my tiny, early baby boy will be 7 years old. It only feels like yesterday that I first held him, utterly exhausted after 13 hrs of induced labour but completely elated and helplessly in love with this little person.
But this evening, I’d settle for being able to comfort my little boy so he can finally relax enough to get to sleep.
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