By the time you read this post, I will have packed a suitcase, boarded a fast train to London and relocated the few things that Dominic and I can survive with into a room somewhere in the heart of Great Ormond Street hospital. I have been preparing to separate myself from my family and
With your first child it’s fine to be fastidious with every aspect of their lives, from having ear phones strapped to your belly playing Beethoven (yes I did this) in order to better grow a cultured foetus, to showing a 6 month old flash cards in the hope it will give them an edge over their competition peers. With the second child you’re happy if everyone is dressed and fed and you convince yourself that the older one is passing on all the wisdom you attempted to impart in them to their younger sibling. By the time you’ve reached your third child, a good day constitutes not having misplaced any of them and not having had the neighbours report the screaming coming from next door to social services. Little do they know that it is you screaming, not your children.
Being in a hospital waiting room is like being stuck at an airport waiting for a delayed plane, although without the promise of a holiday at the end of it. Dominic and I usually sit and while away the time staring at a small screen, me on Facebook him on the DSi. We're generally happy
Have you ever wanted to stare, but known that you shouldn’t? This is a video of the most beautiful child in the world, telling his story of a life with feeding tubes- of course you’ll stare, you won’t be able to tear you eyes away