The Infant Tom Waits

If Tom Waits were cute, blonde, and four years old, he'd be just like Linnea. She has the frog song in her throat. She sounds like a consumptive in a speakeasy.

It's terribly sad and very, very funny.

Zombie

I R walking ded.

Emer's in one of the disposable nappies we bought for the trip to Sweden when we all got too ill to fly. She's in a disposable because we got lots of laundry done but not quite enough. I expect she'll be back in cloth soon. At least all of us are dressed. And had lunch. And Emer napped, again with the needing-to-suck-to-breathe thing.

I'm so tired, and so close to dehydrated, and so, so zombie.

When you are four, some things aren't as gross as they ought to be

While waiting for her sorbet after dinner, ( cut for the squeamish )

"Who made you God?" "Why, you did!" - the doctor

I ended up crying on the phone to a doctor today, because I know you can't do jack about a virus but both children were hanging out of me, Linnea coughed herself sick, Emer couldn't even nap without suckling continuously, let alone sleep all night, oh and they had both stopped drinking ANYTHING from a cup, beaker, glass, straw, bottle, carton, whatyouwill.

But I think we're passed some sort of crisis point because Emer seems able to sleep a bit now and Linnea's cough is less horrific. Still sounds like Eartha Kitt after a rough night out. Only blonde, and four years old.

The doctor painstakingly spelled out the two drugs he thought might help alleviate symptoms a bit but carefully didn't promise anything. It's sucha shame - when I WANT them to be god and take over, they CAN'T, and when I want them to back off and listen, they can't do that either. I NO CAN HAS WIN.

Well, I can has win, two of them, asleep upstairs. The win is both the daughters AND the sleeping daughters.

So I can has hot bath. And Wodehouse. And bed.

(Rob can cook spontaneous leftovers curry, so he is win too).