All Clear

We received the word from the hospital today that our son was in the clear. While we knew that him charging around the flat, pulling out two canulas and being the little ray of sunshine that he is were all big signs he was fine and dandy; it was still a huge relief to know that he was officially ok.

He did not have meningitis and despite my feeling somewhat like a mother who takes her child to A&E for a cold yet again, I am glad I did so. While this was not the big, scary virus he was treated for, it was also not just your ordinary cold and he did have tonsilitis to boot.

It was worth every worried moment, flash of doubt, scream from needles and lost sleep to be perfectly certain my son was a-ok.

As our weekend of marriage time was lost to a weekend of stress and as of yesterday we were still waiting the test results, my husband worked from home. As usual when he does, he gets an idea of how much I do in the day to keep the flat at status quo. When I put the boy down for his big afternoon nap, my husband turned and said:

“Right, off you go.”


“Go. Out. Relax. Get a cuppa. Just do something for yourself, leave the flat and come back when he is due to wake up.”

“Er, but I’ve got washing to hang, pots to wash, the floor to vac and bedroom to tidy before he wakes up next. I’ve no time to go out.”

“Leave that, I’ll do it tonight. You’ve had a stressful week. Just go out. I’m here.”

“But what if he wakes? You’re at work.”

“I’ll deal with it. Go on.”

I then spent ten minutes faffing, trying to find shoes, go to the loo and for some daft reason brush my hair before I realised that I was running out of limited nap time and could actually leave the house, without a child on a sunny day and DO MY OWN THING. What the hell was I doing going for a pee in my own home when I could have one with the door shut in a coffee shop up the road.

Sod the hair, I grabbed my laptop and wallet, flew out of the house and up to the cafe opposite the tube station. I plugged my ipod into my ears for the first time in almost a year, turned up Lungfish and wrote. I wrote like my arms were about to fall off and be damed the carpal tunnel pain, I could sit and drink my tea, write my story without interruption or bother.

There was no one to smile at me and then a pram, ask questions or make polite chatter. For that one hour I was back to being one of the many ignored, anonymous people of North London. I loved it. I wrote 5 pages of work, downed a pot of floral tea, unwound and ignored all the children and parents in the cafe. I even resisted cake.

Then I sauntered home in ten times a better mood than I’ve been in for such a long time. I felt like an adult; an individual, human, grown-up, own interests adult. I could take on the world right there on Archway Road. Or at least take on the rest of the week with OFSTED visits, childminding, visitors, visiting and making a journey South of the river before my Mother-in-Law arrives to give me and my husband some quality marriage time that we desperately need.


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