That's the theory. In practice, minor little things seem to keep happening on Thursdays. LF gets booked for surgery, Mog gets ill, we have day trips with school, Mog gets ill again, and so on. Today was looking good until last night, when my presence was strongly requested at a meeting in the middle. Who needs sleep anyway?
Meeting was successful, annoying but mostly successful. Here's a question though - who is right, me or the therapists? When you measure a child for seat length, in order to fit them for a different chair because the wonderful chair they sit in in nursery has broken and no one knows who is responsible for paying the repair bill, when that child has a leg length discrepancy, do you measure the shortest or the longest leg to work out how long the seat needs to be? I would rather hear your answers before I tell you which was me and which the therapist. Oh - and anyone know who is responsible for repairs to chairs which were liberated from one store cupboard belonging to one particular department, for use by a child from another department, a child who is too young to belong to school and too much in school to access early years funding? So far the only answer seems to be "well it isn't us".
LF coped very well with my midday visit and was fine with me going again so that's good. For once I had remembered it was school photograph day, so
Fast forwards through a peaceful afternoon (much appreciated peaceful afternoon) and on into early evening. We made stuffed marrows for tea - very nice although they refused to bake in time to be eaten before Rainbows. Took Mog to Rainbows, she showed off her new shoes and cried when the others were eating party food. Not entirely sure why - she could have tasted it if she'd wanted to.
Came home to a very tired Little Fish refusing to go to bed for Grannie. One tired Mog squawking, one tired LF protesting. One hassled carer trying to shower Mog, one hassled mother trying to keep both girls from mounting hysteria, and suddenly one Mini Button sitting on the floor and a nice neat hole in Mog's tummy. Wonderful. Balloon still fully inflated, so somehow it got caught up and pulled out without any of us noticing.
Clean hands, new sterile button, one Mog now sore everywhere and well beyond angry. Evening meds are in and sorted, LF in bed and hysterical, both because she's worried about Mog and because she wants me to stay with her until she is asleep; not going to happen whilst Mog is twisting herself into a tight angry knot. Carer leaves, and not until she has reached her car do I realise she has left early, leaving me with two hysterical girls in two separate bedrooms.
LF deeply sad but can wait a minute - if she's able to argue with me and scream that "I wanting Mummy IN ERE NOW" then she's rational and coherent, unlike the purple pretzel of fury previously known as Mog. I stand between both rooms for a minute
Closing her bed quietly I tiptoe into LF's room, where the only sound is the huff and hiss of her Nippy. Not quite asleep, she waves her fingertips at me and I watch as her own eyes gently close, and her lungs rise and fall in an evenly measured 20 breaths per minute. Watching her ventilated breaths is surprisingly relaxing; each one perfectly timed and controlled to inflate her lungs just exactly the right amount. It's lovely to see her colour change and her whole upper body relax and gently rise and fall.
From raging hysterical monstrosities to sweetly sleeping angels in a matter of minutes.
Of course, as I write this up. Mog's hand has begun to bang against the side of her bed in a certain rhythmical fashion which means only one thing - she's having a seizure again. Counting the minutes until intervention time - where did I put that diazepam?