Recipe for a Frazzled Morning

Take one night, disturbed not by a sick child but by a small girl peeling stickers off the wall then getting upset about rubbish in her bed. Add one accidental lie in, and wake to the sounds of a child choking.

Race from bed to sick child. Look at sick child peacefully sleeping. Observe sick child begin a seizure, brought on by bumping the bed when running to rescue child from choking. Observe that sats appear to be fine. Listen, puzzled, as choking continues. Check cats, both of whom appear to be eating happily.

Realise choking is coming not from Mog, who has a cough and tends to choke anyway, but from Little Fish. Stand by Mog's bed, watching her fit for a little while, whilst more awake part of the brain jumps up and down and eventually succeeds in pointing out breathing problems trump seizure activity in order of priority.

Stand by Little Fish's bed, puzzled, whilst sleepy part of brain says "But she doesn't have breathing problems." More alert part of brain points out that needing a ventilator overnight should, probably, count as having a breathing problem. Assess choking noise and realise it is in fact simply sound effects from being ventilated through a nose full of snot. Debate waking LF, but settle for checking all settings and a very gentle repositioning to enable snot to drain through mask. Make mental note to wash mask in the morning, a note which has been forgotten until I type this.

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Interlude in blogging as I wash mask.
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Make tea, sit quietly, attempt to wake up. Find clothes, assemble on body in mostly correct order.

Open door to carer at 7AM and debate which child should be woken first. Neither girl stirs when overhead lights switched on, then both girls wake at same time, each equally unhappy at having been disturbed. Send carer Mogwards and attempt to pacify a grumpier than usual Little Fish.

Dress Little Fish and acquiesce to her request for pancakes for breakfast. Mix batter. Clean frying pan. Grease pan, pour pancake, watch as pancake frizzles and sticks to the sides. Scrape pancake off pan and scrunch onto a plate. Pour second, more respectable pancake, toss, then slide onto plate for Little Fish. Turn around. Knock remaining batter over. Watch as it pours over cupboard, trays, assorted baking dishes, and floor. Mutter. Spread chocolate spread for Little Fish, scrape together enough batter for one more pancake. Pour. Watch as pancake frizzles and sticks to sides of pan once more. Add "dedicated omelette and pancake pan" to mental Christmas wishlist. Scrape pancake off pan onto plate, splat chocolate spread over the top and share with Little Fish.

Remember this is a fluid balance record day for LF and measure precisely 220 mls water. Record. Apologise to school for requiring them to weigh and measure all input and output. Trip over cat.

Put third load of washing in machine, second out to dry, clear up pancake batter puddle and ponder what to do with now disgraceful tea towel.

Make coffee.

Drink coffee.

Begin marathon phone session. Order incontinence supplies for the holidays. Request nursing supplies. Order feed supplies. Have long and frustrating debate with automated phone system until it finally agrees to pass me over to the prescriptions line at our surgery. Wait in a queue. Realise my call is very important to them. Wish they would time this message to coincide with a break in the music rather than cutting in at random intervals, mid phrase. Decide to be thankful the music is instantly forgettable.

Eventually reach woman on other end of prescriptions line. Realise it is not the usual prescriptions lady when she requires me to spell out the girls' names. Realise this will matter when she is unable to find the medications we require. I say it's on the repeats, she says it isn't. I say we've had it since she was a baby, she says it isn't on the list. I say we need it. She says it isn't there. I repeat that we need it. Silence. She agrees to write a note for the doctor. I ask her which doctor, since our GP has just retired. She gives the name of a different Dr. I hope for the best.

I ask for the next drug. She says it is a controlled medication and that we can't have it. I say we need it. She says it is controlled. I point out it is on the repeats list. She writes another note for the Dr. I ask if someone has been editing the prescriptions list. She gets very huffy. I ask for another drug. She asks me if it has a different name. I spell the name for her. She finds it. I ask for the next drug. It too has vanished from the list, despite being prescribed monthly since Mog was two years old. I forget to check whether she has listed all the ones she can't find on her note to the new GP. I go through the rest of our repeats. Repeat above conversation. And again. And again. I lose track of what has and has not been ordered. She remains adamant we cannot have certain medications at all. I move to second child's list. She finds one medication which we could not find on first child's list. And tries to insist we can only have it for this child. I point out both children have painkillers and request the larger bottle we used to get. She insists 100mls is plenty (100mls is ten doses, at 3 doses per child per day one bottle will last less than two days). I consider beating my head against the worksurface, but realise it is still sticky with batter. I consider beating her head against the wall, but realise this would involve leaving the house, something I have successfully avoided doing for most of the past week.

Twenty minutes later we complete the phone call, a call which usually lasts two minutes. I have no idea whether she has recorded all our medications or not, I have no idea whether she will send the amended list to the Dr, and I have a feeling I am now supposed to be making an appointment to see the Dr - who may or may not be our replacement Dr - in order to request that the supply of one medication is increased. Since I have no intention of taking healthy children to sit in a waiting room crowded full of ill people, I decide to wait a couple of days and hope our regular prescriptions lady is back on the job instead.

I hang up the phone and find a message waiting. Phone my mother to discuss the relative benefits of coconut, almond, rice and soya milks. Debate the finer points of dairy free cooking, and point out that one of her tried and tested recipes is dairy free anyway. Discuss one hundred and one things to do with an overcooked plum cake (mainly; insert into Dad's lunchbox and test the theory that he never notices what he eats at lunchtime anyway).

Make coffee. Drink coffee. Breathe. Blog.
Tia