Day 5 and you’re delighted to report that Charlie’s Angels got drunk and have since departed the resort. You can once again breath out as you hit the cobbles trying to get baby to sleep.
Things start to look up as you begin to lose your blue tinge. Somehow despite sitting in the shade continuously, you seem to have developed the Parent Tan™. The intense mahogany shade is limited only to the top of your shoulders, apparently thanks to bending over the baby, checking the nappy/sick/sleep situation. This you take as progress. Your husband has got near first degree burns on his fair skin and blames you for not applying cream to his back. Clearly you’d forgotten you had two kids to look after. Must try harder.
Then comes the obligatory visit to a foreign hospital trip, costing your entire spending money and then some. Spotting a suspicious looking rash on the pet, you order a taxi in a mad dash to get to the hospital. The Greek taxi driver clearly doesn’t pick up on your panic, adding a few extra laps of Athens en route for good measure.
When you get to the hospital after much hand gesturing, you finally get seen by a paediatrician younger than much of your knicker drawer. Your husband decides to show off his Boy Scout skills during the baby’s temperature being taken by offering a newer and improved thermometer of his own. This doesn’t go down well and you’re sure this has a part to play in the final fees.
The hospital decide to take bloods from your tamagotchi which leads to floods of tears. Bloods taken, a male nurse is dispatched to make baby laugh in a desperate attempt to stop you from crying. The baby seems to find the whole situation much less stressful than you, flirting outrageously with every doctor.
When you’re finally given the all clear, the doctors inform you that it could be a virus or a pressure rash. You leave the hospital baffled but relieved. Gin is definitely on the agenda. On the much quicker cab ride home, your husband admits sheepishly that he might have been pulling the baby up by its arms teaching it to sit. Your husband broke the baby.
And so you find yourself that evening in your hotel room rocking your baby to sleep with tears rolling down your face. This time the tears aren’t through frustration that they’re refusing to sleep but through the realisation that you’ve come to love your pet rather a lot. In that very moment, you wouldn’t trade room service with your little family for any amount of partying in Ibiza. You’ve become rather a soft git.
Just like that, you realise that you’ve turned into a soft mint, hardened on the outside but kinda gooey underneath. You’re not sure when or how it happened but you know life will never be the same again. One things for sure though, you still refuse to call your husband ‘daddy’.