A final couple of snaps from the Great Bahamian Adventure™:
While it’s great that Anne can now say a number of words quite clearly, it’s a little less wonderful that she defaults to “MUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMYY! UPPPPPPPP!” as she goes through this 18-month sleep regression.
(Although, since she’s never slept more than three hours at a stretch, I shouldn’t really be classifying it as a regression. More an increased fussiness as she won’t go back to sleep easily, unless I sleep with her on the sofa bed.)
Here’s Anne photo bombing a shot of her cousin Mila while we were on holiday.
On board Riding High with the Barefoot Sailing company.
We’ve been going to the beach every day. What a chore. Heh.
Anne and Mila playing the ever-popular game, Let’s fling sand at each other.
We’re on holiday. Heathrow has a soft play area next to the gate. Woohoo!
While I’m glad Anne’s finally got through the phase where everything and everyone is ‘daddy’, I’m less amused that she is pointing at pictures and drawings of monkeys and saying ‘mummy’. You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Or holding on to the baby as she insists on getting on a horse on the coin-operated carousel.
A photo from March this year that I’ve only managed to get processed this week. And what a week.
“She’s being taken away from you because you don’t deserve her. Don’t get too attached.”
Those were the thoughts that flashed through my head when I was watching Neil try to revive Anne after she collapsed in the shower. Her eyes had rolled up in her head and she just keeled over backwards. I caught her before she hit the ground (I actually thought she was just playing) and when she wasn’t responsive, yelled for Neil. He checked in her mouth to make sure she hadn’t swallowed her tongue while I dialled 999, and she didn’t look like she was breathing. She finally came to when the dispatcher told us the paramedic was on his way.
I swear, I think my own heart stopped waiting for her to breathe.
So we spent the night in the hospital, first waiting in Emergency for a doctor, then a paediatrician, who decided that she should be admitted for observation as at no time before or after the fit did she have a high temperature (i.e. not a febrile fit). They didn’t say it, but they did check if she was showing symptoms of meningitis, and she isn’t. It’s a mystery.
I must, deep down, still think that things can and will go very wrong, all based on that ovarian ectopic pregnancy in 2011. I thought the fatalism would go away when Anne was born, healthy and happy, but I guess now that she’s mobile, adventurous, and inquisitive, the subconscious dread must be greater. Stranger danger, bolting out into the road, all those fears that every parent has. And if the worst happens, it’s my being her mum that means she was doomed from the start.
I’ve got to get over it. Crazy.