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We’re home. A week in hospital, but we’re home. One of my friends asked what is was like staying there for a week. Well it wasn’t that bad. Billie’s illness aside (if you can put it to one side) I quite liked the experience. My daily domestic routine revolved around Billie’s medication, keeping our little area of the ward tidy and co-ordinating our sleeping and eating patterns. I waxed lyrical to this mate about how I rather enjoyed the stay, with the sunny ward, lunchtime trips to the canteen and afternoon sleeps. He was horrified and lectured me on how my standards have slipped. After all, he pointed out, it was only a few years ago that Steve and I were staying at the Royalton in New York or the Arts in Barcelona. And now I was cheerily describing the merits of a National Health hospital ward with the luxury features of a camp bed, shared toilet just 20 yards down the hall, and a view of the back of the canteen from our window. Was he right? Had I so lost sight of my old life that hospitalisation equalled a holiday?

After careful consideration it strikes me that though the amenities of the children’s ward do not compare favourably to the circular baths, rooftop swimming pools and floor-to-ceiling trendiness of those wonderful hotels, I got the same thing from both, namely solitude and simplicity of lifestyle. Since having the children I can honestly say I don’t think I have had one minute to myself and even the most straightforward of activities feels like the hardest task. 

Take going to the toilet. How many of you parents manage to poo in peace? I don’t even bother closing the door these days, for the scratching and tapping that goes on if I do. Best just to announce a visit to the toilet like a trip out. Then Olly and Billie can gather themselves and any available toys and join me there. Whereupon Olly will announce that he too has to go to the loo. Then Bill tells you she wants the potty. Then they proceed to the toilet roll and tear of the tiniest pieces of paper ever and either solemnly hand them to you for your mandatory use or try and pop them in the loo by climbing and leaning all over you. Then they’ll decide that they have to weigh themselves by jumping on and off of the scales repeatedly. 

I gaze up at the ceiling and wonder if I’ll ever get any peace again and gnash my teeth at the fact that Steve always closes the bathroom door when he goes to the toilet and the kids never bat an eyelid. So that’s solitude shot to hell, without even mentioning the shouting, banging, yelling, engine noises, animal impressions, crying, laughing, demands for camps, tents and train track building, endless unanswerable questions, dramatic food refusals, rows over the TV, hurling of cups and twirling of sticks. 

What about simplicity of lifestyle? A trip to the local shops takes on the magnitude of a six-month expedition. Bottle for Bill, drink for Olly, jackets in case it gets cold, sunglasses and hats. Wipes in case we have any sweets or accidents, spare trousers for Olly (wee) spare clothes for Bill (vomit). One toy per child, which is usually bid up by Bill to doll, Stuart Mouse and book. Then don’t forget the argument over buggy versus double pram, then the row over either who goes on the buggy board or who goes front or back in the pram. Then of course I (coming poor second to a goldfish in the memory stakes) have to repeatedly dash back in to grab purse, bag, shopping list, phone, jacket, answer ringing phone, check all taps are off and windows closed, running upstairs at intervals to grab Stuart/doll/book. Finally as I turn the key in the door Olly announces that he needs the loo and Bill tells me she’s done a poo. And I was only going out for tomato sauce and wet wipes 

So the hospital stay gave me back something I’d not experienced in a while, and though I would never, ever want to go through anything like that with Billie again, I know that the experience of a quieter, simpler lifestyle is something I really miss. 

PS Sometimes when Steve is home I pop out for no reason at all other than the sheer luxury of putting on my coat, grabbing my bag and LEAVING. 

Juliet Jones lives in domestic chaos with husband Steve, son Oliver (aged 3) and daughter Billie (aged 2) in Hertfordshire.

NEXT INSTALMENT: MONDAY 15 APRIL

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