Well, here in Emergency Ward 10 things have quietened down a little. I have been unable to write anything as over the past two weeks we’ve had :

Twisted ankle – Olly - two days off school.

Chest infection – Billie - 5 days off nursery and plenty of crying and up all night.

Ye Olde Vomity Virus – Billie - two days off school, projectile vomit and plenty of temperatures and screaming.

Acute bronchitis – me - no time off (apart from one Saturday), very good cough akin to a forty-a-day Marlboro Red habit, temperature and feeling like an evil midget is jumping up and down on my solar plexus.

Fall in the playground – me - cut knees and hands, very shaken and an evening in hospital after it looked like I might be going into labour.

So it’s been a quiet one, and for those of you with smalls, quite an average couple of weeks dealing with the evil bugs that return home with them after a day of canoodling with other little ones. Before kids, I used to get ill a couple of times a year with a cold virus/cough thing. Nowadays I feel I’ve got off light if I’ve gone three weeks without something. I think that germs go into kids’ bodies just your average bug, and after having fed on all those wonderful young, ‘bursting with energy’, cells, come out the superheroes of the germ world. Then they visit us, and pack such a punch we’re laid out for days. And of course, we always catch it after we’ve been up for the previous ten days dealing with the children being ill. And mine never get ill at the same time, they always make sure that one has really knackered us before the other comes down with it. To add insult to injury, just as we start to feel the tickle in the throat or achy in the bones, they bounce back like super balls, wanting 100% attention and extra play to make up for missed time.

Joking aside, the fall in the playground was horrible. I’d had a bad morning as I had completely failed in my resolve to get Billie to go to nursery. She really hates it. “I don’t want to go to school” is her hourly mantra, and despite it being a lovely nursery; sunny and bright, great teachers (Olly went there and loved it), Billie comes home painting a picture of being held captive by Cruella De Ville and Snow White’s Step Mum, whilst being put to work in the mines. So when she started crying on Friday, having been ill the previous few days, I just caved and kept her at home, all the while feeling sick with guilt, at yet again, failing in my duty as a mother.

At midday I went to get Olly, and was thinking “just an afternoon to get through and then it’s the weekend” when I caught my foot in a pothole in the tarmac. The following scene, if put to music, would play out to the strains of “Born Free”. I went down like a great white rhino thundering through the grasslands and savannahs of Southern Africa, as the tranquilliser dart shoots it, before being moved to a safer area away from the poachers. First I fell on my knees, then my hands, then backwards onto my bum and finally ended up lying on my back. I lay there looking at the sky and ankles of fellow mummies, and then I burst into tears. Those big, blobby tears, reserved for sad films and bad adverts. Everyone was a bit shocked as no one saw it happen and so they thought I’d collapsed. In between ungainly gulps I explained what’d happened, and was lifted by four muscle-y mums to a bench where I continued to cry.

When I got home, I couldn’t stop shaking and a couple of hours later, I seemed to be losing amniotic fluid, so ended up going to hospital. This of course, also involved getting the children minded, calling Steve back from town, getting my bag together, trying to find my hospital book and remaining cheerful in front of the kids.

Thankfully everything is fine; they kept me there for observation, and took lots of samples of this and that, and were really sweet and reassuring. I’ve subsequently spoken to several mums who also had falls late in pregnancy, and all confirmed that they felt very tearful and shocked. It made me think of how awful it must be when you’re old and you take a tumble; you can see how some people just don’t come back from it. Two days later, I am still bruised and sorry for myself but on the mend. I wish I could say the same for the bronchitis. When I got back from the hospital Olly was very concerned and came and sat with me in bed. After looking at my cut knees and grazed hands he sat thoughtfully for a moment. Then he looked at me with a frown. “You know mummy, you’re not meant to play on the hard floor of the playground, if you want to play you should go on the grass then it doesn’t hurt if you fall over”.

Countdown to baby: 31 days

On a scale of 1 – 10:

Anxiety : 6
Heartburn : 7
Sleeplessness : 5
Irritability : 8
Waddling/rolling gait: 7

Juliet Jones lives in domestic chaos with husband Steve, son Oliver (aged 4) and daughter Billie (aged 3) in Hertfordshire.

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