There are exceptions to every rule.

Today was at my place and I was happy to see everyone…bar one.

Tell me, why would anyone bring a clearly under the weather and snotty toddler into my house when they know full well how sick miss I has been, and proceed to let them paw and mouth any toy they wanted?

Why would they organise to pick up a nebuliser from another Mum at my house for their so obviously unwell child?

Why would they change the runny nappy of said child on my floor without a mat?

I could scream.

Hoping my first* OB’s appointment on Friday will bring some relief (ideally in a pharmaceutical form), because right now I’m not feeling all that fresh and happy lala and able to write posts of any interest whatsoever.  Please excuse me if I don’t comment on your blogs until then.  I am reading and thinking of you all, honest and for…gahhh..

Bleurgh.

* The appointment I managed to miss last Friday, what with the fully sick miss E and an inability to write the correct date on the calendar and all.  I am so the clichéd mum to be of number three.

I’d like see a fat chick book that deals with that.

Off I go to worship the porcelain god again….

Well it’s only partly that.

I have been dealing with ‘just a virus’ for over a week right now, a dreadful snotty lurgy that has tortured my throat and nose and general will to live, before deciding to settle in my right ear this morning, from which I have not yet regained my hearing.

Oh the pressure as the train ascends the mountain, the freaking pressure.  And no suitable decongestant drugs to be had thanks to the first trimester/breastfeeding combo that leaves you with something as useless as your immune system to deal with it all.

But there’s no more time for sooking and fondly remembering the golden days of pregnancy, when you could actually lie around and do stuff all.  Although thanks to the darling man that is mr hissychick I have been doing as much of that as I can.

I digress.

You see my two darlings have pulled a two for one get out of jail daycare pass on me.  This morning I received a phone call at work to inform me that E has severe conjunctivitis in both eyes, and while we’re at it, A has hurt her mouth and you might want to get the still bleeding area and wobbly tooth checked out.

Mr hissychick valiantly escaped the office to collect the kids.

Of course the earliest doctors appointment we could get is tomorrow  (and not one for myself, around our way you have to give the medical establishment two weeks notice that you might be sick ).  Somehow through the magic that is my husband this does not clash with the afternoon with the pediatric  dentist gig.  So our day off will be a fun one of juggling engagements a mere 50 km away from each other, thankfully with a visit to Nana to offload the gunky eyed one and new batch of germs collected at the doctor’s office in between.

Despite all of the shenaningans one thought keeps running through my mind: Could it really be true that this time next year I’ll be juggling a third kidlet and their issewes as well?

God I hope so.

(Pausing to take a gulp of wine)

My four year old…she….oh…she….

(Another swig of sweet alcoholic relief)

…ok let me brace myself and paint the scene for you.

My stubborn little miss was determined to wear a singlet dress while shopping today, even though it was rather chilly and rather than entering into yet another argument I simply popped a long sleeved top into my handbag before we left home, knowing full well it would be requested at some stage during our outing.

(Yet another slug from my refilled glass).

Sure enough, a decidedly cold young miss determined that she needed an additional layer of warmth, just as I was heading back to pick up a bottle of forgotten juice while mr hissychick and little miss E started unloading groceries at the checkout.

(Shiraz cab me baby).

Big deal I hear you say.  Ummm no.  Or rather, I mean yes.

A decided that said top had to go under her dress, and proceeded to pull her dress down to her ankles in the middle of the damn aisle, revealing a bare chest and loads of bum crack peeking out from the decidedly too small undies that she had insisted on wearing.  She then calmly redressed herself, totally unselfconsciously and oblivious to the somewhat horrified mummy bemused shoppers nearby

(Surely I can’t be halfway through a bottle of red already?).

Oh come off it hissychick you snort, kids do that kind of thing all the time, surely you just gave her a quiet talk about keeping nudity to the privacy of one’s own home and went on your merry way?

(May as well finish it off, it’s quite a nice drop)

Well that’s what I started to do, until I was interrupted by miss A, who loudly reminded me

“DON’T FORGET TO GET THE SPECIAL CHOCOLATE MEDICINE BEFORE WE GO HOME MUMMY TO KILL THE WORMS THAT ARE MAKING MY BOTTOM ITCHY”

You may never hear from me again.

Bah.

So it’s not exactly hard to understand that my sleep deprived and stressed out self is a tad over it right now.

However all is not lost.  Mr hissychick has taken it upon himself to cheer me up.  By cheer me up I mean give me an affectionate pat on the bum as he walks past. “It’s a boy hug” he gleefully tells me, oblivious to the thunderous look on my face.

The vacant block next door is far too obvious a place……

*Let us not speak of the emergency ward stuff up where a doctor checked off that she had been examined but had in fact was not seen for six hours after admission, during which time I had the pleasure of soothing my terrified child when an eighteen year old screaming in agony from a bowel obstruction was admitted into the paed bed next to ours. The very same hospital that failed to diagnose my ectopic pregnancy six and a half years ago, not once, but twice.  Never again.

And that is more than you needed to know.

PS Niece is gorgeous.

PPS No I have not been hassling mr hissychick for number three since seeing said niece, see main body of post above.

I am thirty two, for dog’s sake, far too old for this teenage shit.

An anti-androgenic pill is obviously out for now, seeing as miss E still loves her boobie at the ripe old age of eighteen months old (today!).

However I really do need to get my pimply self to my GP, as along with the zits I have been putting up with a few other vague but annoyingly persistent symptoms such as fatigue, mood swings (who me? never), and weakness and numbness in my hands and feet especially in the morning. Oh yeah, and let’s not forget severe ovulation pain and bloating.  Thanks to Dr Google, I am wondering if I am starting to develop PCOS. 

Unless it’s my thyroid or iron levels. Again.

Either way I best put down the chocolate/ice cream/ fun festive treats and start cranking up a high protein/low GI diet and see if that makes a difference.  Apparently it does for teenage pizza face boys, so why not me?

Meh. Time to get back to wrapping Christmas presents for A’s two closest friends. We are all meeting up for a celebratory post Christmas concert/end of daycare for the year milkshake tomorrow afternoon. 

Even if it’s not low GI, it will be high on the parental gooeyness at seeing your child share some seasonal delight with her mates scale.

I’ve worn several episodes of regurgitated stomach contents in my nether regions (as well as in my hair, on my back, and as have the walls and carpet) since Saturday, when miss E suddenly succumbed to a nasty spew and rash virus that saw us spend several hours in hospital yesterday under observation.

And to think I’ve always pooh poohed old superstitions like bad luck happening in threes.