Martin and Hazel Frost Our life in Argentina

We were discharged from hospital on Sunday. "Croup" said one doctor, "Chest infection but probably not but maybe and let's treat it as though it is even though it most likely isn't" said another.

The discharge letter came through today "Upper Airway Obstruction secondary to Cerebral Palsy." Apparently she was admitted with "Coryzal symptoms" , which my google-fu translates as "common cold". So far, so unremarkable. Needed oxygen. No news there either. The letter indicates she was initially treated with a Budesonide nebuliser. News to me; I guess they must have done that after I had left her. No mention, oddly enough, of the saline nose drops one doctor insisted would cure her if we just squirted them up her nostrils every 10-15 minutes. And then a list of other treatments they'd given her, including the transfer over to HDU. And one little sentence, buried in amongst it all. "She had apnoeic episodes and had an episode of complete obstruction lasting two minutes."

Two minutes? She stopped breathing for two minutes? Was this not something it might have been considered appropriate to mention to me at some point? Apparently, after this, she continued to have "occasional desaturations at night which responded to oxygen." And then they discharged her with a recommendation for a saturation monitor.

Well that's great. We've got the monitor. Now I have warnings of her "Occasional desaturations" and get to poke and prod her until she rouses up out of her deep sleep enough to take a deeper breath. I wonder how often they have to happen before occasional becomes regular or frequent? And I wonder how she's supposed get a proper night's sleep if we have to keep poking her to get her breathing properly?

And I wonder what happens next time she gets a cold?

Tia

And I love it!

Tia

12 times in 20 minutes is how often I had to call "Girls!" to get them to listen at Guides last night - bring back our signing friend please!

1 girl with 2 friends is how many girls locked themselves in the toilet last night because when you're that upset, the loo's the only place to go.

17 kisses and cuddles is what Little Fish asked for before going to bed; a request I was happy to fulfil.

60 degrees C is what I accidentally washed my clothes at last night; it's got the wheelchair cover clean but I'm not convinced the T-shirts appreciated it.

13 minutes is how long it took me to relight the boiler last night, and 25 degrees is the temperature I accidentally left the thermostat on whilst trying to get it to fire up. Break out the shorts this morning!

1 hour to go until Little Fish's first ever school assembly - she has a sentence "All our Mummies are very special". We've been practicing. So far, this consists of me prompting with "all our?", and her burying her head in her lap and asking for ham sandwiches. Fun times ahead.

45 minutes is how long we had to wait after our hospital appointment yesterday, for th lorry which had parked in front of our van to lift a set of portaloos over the top of it. I didn't feel inclined to argue.

And, by a curious coincidence, 45% is where Mog's SATs were at 1 this morning.

Tia

A difficult start to the night for Mog, and a frustrating one for me. The discovery that one drug had been missed off the drugs chart, explaining some of the problems she had last night. This the day after discovering another drug had been missing, and a few hours before realising one of the PRNs was incorrectly dosed too. Oh, and then the night nurse came in to lecture me about using out of date medication - whilst I'll take responsibility for it being out of date, I'm not sure why it was my fault no one noticed on Wednesday, Thursday or Friday. Mog's oxygen levels dropped as soon as she dropped off to sleep in the early evening, but a good seizure had them up at 100% again - jolly useful thing those great gasping fits she has sometimes! And then she had a beautifully settled few hours' sleep.

So this morning the great respiratory man came around and reviewed her, and decided she could go home. Diagnosis? Hmmm. Deterioration. The good news, she won't need surgery as it isn't her tonsils causing the problem. The bad news, it's floppiness at the back of her throat so surgery won't help. Treatment? Keep her in a good position. And he thinks having a proper SATs monitor at home, one which she can wear overnight and which will alarm if she drops very low, would be a sensible idea. Of course now I'm sitting here at home and wondering what we do when the monitor alarms if just getting her upright again doesn't in fact help, but at least I can sleep at night until that happens rather than lying in bed wondering if it's already happening. Or will be able to, when we get the monitor.

So, home. One very very happy Mog. One mostly happy Little Fish, allowing the events of the last few days to catch up with her and so being a little precious. Three delighted cats, one of which has been begging me to take a hairbrush to his tail and back legs, and de-leaf him. One house which appears to have multiplied its chaotic norm in my absence, not entirely sure how that has happened but I'm reassured by the fact it has. At least this proves it isn't all me. Or something. And one very tired me, not quite relaxed about having Mog at home knowing that she does horrible things overnight, but on the whole rather jolly pleased our family is back together again and hoping the next hospitally emergency is a long way off.

And realising, as I write this, that we are in fact at home and that this does in fact mean I actually have to go and sort out the drugs myself; they aren't going to magically appear on a tray held at my elbow as I swoosh them through Mog's gastrostomy. So I'd better go and do that.

Tia

Mog earlier this evening, deciding hospital wasn't necessarily the worst thing ever. Of course that was before Little Fish got to go home with Grannie, and Mog got to stay here with me and be pumped full of IV antibiotics. She's now in bed beside me and grizzling her way to sleep.

Mog has been hot and sweaty today, a mild fever and pouring dribble - but not drowning in it. No longer hooked up to monitors or oxygen, we escaped the ward on several occasions for coffee and lunch and other diversions. All diversions welcomed, frankly.

Current thinking is that we'll be here for the weekend at least, the doctors want her to see respiratory and neurology type people to get an idea for what's happening. She has been very stiff today after all the recent floppiness. Somewhere surely there must be a balance. She's keeping her sats up nicely during the day (as long as we switch the monitor off as soon as she's hit 98 and before it can drop again), but she's been showing people what she can do when she's asleep - I thought 66% was a record on HDU but last night she managed 55%. We'd all be happy for her not to repeat that, or at least not except in front of exactly the right medic to sort it out. So she's hooked up to a monitor again tonight and we'll see what she has in store for us.

Having stopped crying, she's now settling beautifully with a nice neat 96 for pulse and o2 both - very symmetrical. I know it's not just about the numbers, and in fact I'm nicely settled in a spot where I can't see the monitor unless I get up which is handy. But I am so relieved that finally she's shown the doctors what she can do - it's been quite a lonely spot here, trying to convince people against the evidence of the sleep studies.

Tia

A much better night followed by an even better day. This afternoon saw a return of evil Mog, kicking hersister and tipping supplies off her wheelchair tray as we packed up ready to leave the ward. Huge excitement and big smiles. And then we got upstairs, and the whole world realised she had been expecting to go home. Huge weeps and utter misery and one soggy dejected and mightily hacked off little girl.

Me, I'm less unhappy. We have a room with its own en suite shower! US readers may not appreciate this for the luxury it really is. And Mog is off the oxygen and keeping her sats up reasonably well. Just need her to stick at it overnight and then I'm sure we'll be talking home again. Although we won't be mentioning that to her until it's for definite.

I'd like to get home, but more than that, I'd like to get to the bottom of her recent problems. So I'd really like tonight to be nicely typical. And meanwhile, if I ever suggest bringing bananas into hospital, someone please shoot me. Day three and they're stinky. But if this is the most I have to worry about then life must be pretty good.

Tia

an awful start but a much better day. Slow but steady improvements, although the constant splutter drown cough has been replaced by some deeply unpleasant greenish grey gunk which has been scraped up and sent away to see what it might be growing.

Down to 2 litres oxygen tonight, still on IV steroids and now starting antibiotics too. Tired but happy; I have abandoned her and come up to the parents room at the very top of the hospital. Creepy place but it has a bed so I'll not complain.

Going to be in for a few days I suspect but hopefully out of HDU if she has a decent night tonight. Friend is staying with Little Fish tonight and has even committed to dressing her as Lola from Charlie and Lola for the school's world book day celebration tomorrow. And yes, they are celebrating a day late, I haven't just lost a day!

Next step for me, work out how to clone myself as school is, rather inconsiderately, closed for the weekend from tomorrow afternoon and my stock of Little Fish sitters has run out. Not sure if she'll be allowed on HDU; another reason to hope Mog improves enough to be elsewhere from tomorrow. Although where that elsewhere will be I'm not quite sure - beds are still an issue I think.

Still, for now, she has one and I have another and we're only half a dozen floors apart. And whilst she may have snoozed most of the day away, I did not. Going to make up for lost time.

Night,
Tia

The phonecall you never want, especially at 4AM. Mog's not been having a good night, they have one more nebuliser they want to try (adrenaline?) and then if no improvement they'd like her to go to HDU (High Dependency Unit). Only, there are no HDU beds...

And now it's 5 AM and the doctor has just rung again to say no worse, but no better, and they have miracled up an HDU bed for her. So very pleased she wasn't sent to Banbury. And whilst hating the need, very very pleased she's moving to HDU - much higher nursing cover there.

Only two hours now until someone else will be here and I can abandon Little Fish and go and hunt through the bowels of the hospital to find the basement based HDU.

Tia

No answer from the neuro, and one increasingly tired Mog. So we went for the GP option instead. GP diagnosed chest infection, based on low sats (88ish), rapid breathing, and general "there must be something wrong-ness". Phoned the hospital, hospital said to bring her in for assessment but that there were no beds so she couldn't be admitted. And would have to go to the satellite hospital 40 miles away if admission needed.

We zipped home for meds and pyjamas, called the prayer warriors into action, and drove to hospital. Green lights all the way, halving the journey time.

Parked the bus, unloaded, walked through the hospital to A&E with Mog snurfling mightily as we went. Arrived in paeds A&E, the doctor sent us back out to the main A&E to register. Not used to that; we normally come in by ambulance. So, out of paeds, back to the main one, join the queue. The queue melts away at the sound of Mog, and a green-clad doctor grabs Mog and whisks her back through to paeds leaving me with a pile of forms and a bemused Little Fish. I follow Mog to find her already hooked up on O2 and the doctor who sent us back to fill out the forms hoding somewhat sheepishly under a counter.

Different doctor, different diagnosis; this time the theory is viral croup. Dexawotisit failed to help, so he decided saline drops up her nose every 15 minutes ought to do the trick. It didn't.

He decided to admit her to Banbury, I had a bit of a meltdown, he aid all the staff would do their best, I asked how it was in her best interests to send her 40 miles away without me, he failed to understand why putting her in an ambulance with a nurse who had met her for the first time 1 hour ago and been very busy elsewhere ever since, and entrusting that nurse with the job of handing over to a brand new hospital staff who had never met her either, might be a problem. He kept trying to reassure me that she wasn't "that" ill right now. The nurse, thankfully, understood my concern was less about how ill she was right now and more about her baseline medical condition. And will forever be my favourite nurse, because she managed somehow to persuade a full hospital to find a spare bed. Not the medical ward, but the same ward we ended up in last time when the hospital was full*. Staff somewhat miffed to be taking a new non-gastro patient in the middle of the night, but cue one very very relieved me.

Big points to Little Fish who was outstandingly excellent all evening despite being absolutely exhausted. She waited with the porter during X rays, she didn't fuss when Mog needed my lap, she pleaded for bed a few times but mostly chatted quietly and tried to soothe Mog who was not appreciating all her attention.

And now I'm off to catch what sleep I can and try to work out what I need to do tomorrow in order to get up to the hospital as early as possible. Grandad has agreed to walk Little Fish to school so hopefully I'll beat the doctors to the ward. We will however miss the dentist again - poor Mog's been waiting nearly a year now to get her teeth de-scaled.

Still no idea what this really is, but the oxygen's helping, and that has to be good. Prayers appreciated for a safe night for Mog - I HATE leaving her in hospital although I'm much happier about the hospital which actually has her medical teams in it than the one which has in the past refused to admit her as she's generally too unstable for their peace of mind.

Night all,
Tia


*query - if the hospital is forever full and having to divert patients, would it not make sense to increase the capacity of the hospital?

For my friend who couldn't find it here or here


Cartoon by Dave Walker. Find more cartoons you can freely re-use on your blog at We Blog Cartoons.
Tia

Mog's not quite right at the moment. Not desperately ill, not got a chest infection, just drowning, demonstrating her incredibly irritating stridor, and obstructing merrily if she falls into any less than perfect position. She's tired - it's hard work breathing underwater - and I'm tired - it's hard work trying to keep her in a position where she isn't breathing underwater.

She's certainly not ill enough to need a 999 call. She's not ill enough to be admitted to hospital. But she isn't well either. It's not a GP type of problem, and in any case our GP has no appointments for today. It's not an emergency issue, no point going to A&E.

So I am proposing an Importancy Room. NHS policy makers please note. This would be a place you could go with issues which really aren't necessarily immediately life or death or broken bones, but which can't wait six weeks to be seen in the next available clinic.

Meanwhile, in the absence of an Importancy Room, anyone got any suggestions? There's a call in to her neurologist, we've already spoken to her paediatrician. When she isn't drowning she's quite happy, when she is, we're all somewhat miserable.

Tia

We had a visitor at Guides tonight.Abandoning her home despite being unwell, she came to teach the girls some Makaton. And they listened.

I've come to the conclusion we are all fairly rubbish Guiders. Our girls mostly come from the same Brownie Packs. In Brownies, they sit, silently, as the leaders talk. They come running to do the leaders' bidding. And they listen.

And then they move up to Guides, and they seem to be under the impression that as long as they avoid direct eye contact with an adult, that adult will remain unaware of the fact they are talking to a friend, sharing iPod earphones, chewing gum, and doing any one of the hundred things which are clearly more important than actually listening to the leaders.

But tonight, they were silent. Stage one Makaton mostly memorised, a dozen extra animals just for fun, songs and I Spy, with our non-verbal Guide in her element checking the other girs' signs and generally making sure everyone knew she already knew what our visitor was teaching.

And the girls listened. Mostly. They stopped chatting and whispering long enough to learn, they stayed silent long enough to practice, they actually managed to look at our visitor and do the things she asked them to do. It was great.

And then R left, and the meeting descended into complete and utter chaos. But then, considering the girls spent the rest of the meeting blindfolded and feeding each other yoghurt, I'm not convinced it could ever have been anything but chaotic.

Thanks, R; they really appreciated it! And so did we.
Tia

Little Fish has taken to checking up before she does all sorts of things.
Grabbing a box of pens, taking off the lid and about to throw it on the floor, she pauses, looks up at me and asks "Am I doing the right thing?"

Emptying the magnetic letters onto the floor and stirring them into a soup with a stack of photographs, just before adding the prune juice she stops, looks up, and asks again.

I'd love to say this is wonderful, and that on being asked to decide what the right thing might be, or told that it quite definitely is not the right thing to do, that she then stops instantly. Alas, she's still a four year old girl, and after several "OK, Mummy I do the right thing" we still get the "I am NOT wanting to do the right thing." But hey, I can sympathise with that. And somehow, a small child who can tell me she is choosing to do the wrong thing is somehow less infuriating than a child who appears to have no idea why it might not be a good idea to rip up the books, flood the bathroom, and stab her knees with pens until they bleed. I can work with that.

She's making strides, growing. I love it. I could post something about how we might be coming out of this pit of tantrums and temper, except that as I write this, she's sitting in the bathroom screaming at our carer. The right thing to do would be to go and intervene, but it turns out I am not wanting to do the right thing.

Grolly turns one this week. Little Fish decided she needed a Birthday Cake. And a party - a cat party. What does a cat party involve, I hear you ask? Ham and pate and lots of singing apparently. A chocolate sponge cake and a candle, and we had to thank her for having a Birthday.

I took the opportunity to ask Little Fish what she'd like for her own Birthday later this month. "Ummmm, we can invite Grannie and Grandad acos we 'ave not seen them for a long time*, and we 'ave a Cake and candles and we sing and that is all." All? No party? Nope. No presents? Nope. No other food? "We can go to a dinner shop?" Perhaps we can. I might just have to provide a present despite her not wanting one, but I hope she doesn't feel short-changed later by the lack of a party. Unlikely, as she's been adamant about not attending any of her friends' parties for the last six months. I'll not push it; cake and Grandparents and possibly a dinner shop sounds pretty good to me.

Meanwhile, Grolly had a very nice party, even if Goway ate all the ham. Both Grolly and Gotcha think the best gift ever was yesterday's cat hole, even if they haven't quite got the hang of rain yet.

*that'll be since last Sunday, when we had lunch with them!

So, today , as I cleaned the third cat turd from the bathtub in as many days, I decided that things really couldn't carry on as they are. No, we didn't rehome the cats; I went to the petshop for a catflap to fit our current cat hole. They didn't have an exact fit, so I settled for a large cat/small dog flap, stocked up on a few other essentials, arranged a second mortgage to pay for it all, and left the house.

We came home, and I opened the catflap box to discover the instructions consisted solely of indecipherable little pictures. And a circle which I needed to cut out of the door. Our current cat hole is U-shaped; I'm not sure why a U-shaped flap needs a round hole, but hey ho, I have a saw and I'm not afraid to use it.

Unfortunately I'm not especially competent at using it either.And after a lot of huffing and puffing, and a fair bit of polystyrene blowing across the garden, I decided perhaps fitting cat flaps not my forte, and that I could probably live with a cat hole for a little longer. So, I left the hole unblocked and waited for the cats to discover it.

And they did. Grolly was the first; she went out, ran in circuits around the garden, sat down in the wet grass, rolled a few times to get thoroughly muddy, and then bounded in to sit on my lap (something she never does) to tell me all about it. Great. One cat hole, one wet and muddy cat, and now one wet and muddy lap too.

Gotcha went hunting next. And decided he really was a Forest Cat. A very happy, very stuck, Forest Cat.
Joy.

So after he'd cried for rescue, I scrambled up after him and tipped him out. Wondering as I did so why I was letting a cat not known for his ability to groom himself mix with moss, lichen, and mud. I'm still thinking on that one.

But, after their tree adventures, they both bounded around the garden for another twenty minutes, looking more like excited puppies than cats, sniffing everything, running back to check we were still around, then bounding around and over and under things again until the clank of dinner bowls indicated there might be better things inside.

The girls had a good time too.
Little Fish beetling in and out to report on progress and tell tales, Mog outside for a while and then inside to plot evil deeds.
And now both cats are sitting on the windowsill, watching the leaves blow around outside but no longer desperate to chase them. No signs of outdoor widdles either, but hopefully they'll discover this pleasure shortly.

Tia

It's been three years now since Little Fish joined our family, four years since I first heard about her. Mog's been here for seven years, and I first met Goldie ten years ago now. If the girls had been born to me on the dates when they moved in, there would be the same age gaps between them as between my brothers and I. And in a neatish twist, I was the same age when each girl arrived as was Mum when we came along.

So far, so parallel.

But my parents did not have to prove their ability to parent before they were allowed to take their children home from hospital. They didn't have to stand in front of a panel and be asked questions about their reasons for wishing to parent, valid questions perhaps about why I was choosing to adopt after years of fostering, but inane questions too about why I take children camping. I don't mind being asked, but I did mind having to dress up in my best clothes, leave my girls with a relative stranger to sit in a room in front of a judicious looking panel, a panel with the right to approve or disapprove my application to adopt, only to be asked how I pitch tents.

I'd say that all my parents had to do was get (and stay) pregnant, except I know that's not necessarily easy or possible, and I'd hate to appear flippant about something which causes so many people such heartbreak.

But there's no requirement for birth children to have their own bedroom. The hospital midwives don't come to visit prior to discharge, ensuring you have plug socket covers (which may actually be more dangerous than having uncovered sockets, at least here in the UK), keep your wine in a locked cupboard, and have no foxgloves or other dangerous plants in your garden. When you go for your 22 week scan, the scanner doesn't insist on interviewing your parents and best friends before giving you the results and the photograph.

Try growing your family without giving birth and not only are there hosts of rules and regulations*, you're also regulated by the opinions of those who have the power to make the decisions. People who look at the paperwork and not at the family, who have their own ideas about why I might be doing this or what our lives must be like, rather than knowing us and seeing how we are.

Imagine being told you're pregnant, and three days later discovering you aren't after all. That's pretty much how it feels when you're told a new placement is coming and then the situation changes, or people change their minds, and there's a brief phonecall saying "Thanks, but you're not needed any more". It doesn't matter how little information you had about that particular placement; for those three days you were juggling bedrooms, sorting clothes, checking through the diary to see what might need tweaking. And then you're left with an empty cot and a box full of newly cleaned and organised popper vests. And yes, of course there will be a next time, but there's no timescale, no guarantee it won't happen again next time, only the ache that it wasn't the case this time around.

But more than that, there's the knowledge that nothing I can do can change this. There are no vitamin supplements I can be taking, no routines to follow, getting more rest or losing the stress isn't going to change the outcome. It's all down to a group of people, most of whom have never met me, who look at the information on the paperwork. And I know, on paper, we're never going to be the first choice. Single parent, two high-need children, what on earth is she doing even thinking she could take another?

The really important things get somehow lost; they're not so quantifiable. I'm actually pretty good at this, or at least I think I am. Sounds arrogant? Perhaps. But then, this is what I was made for. This is what I do; it's my job and my life and my love. It's not easy - nothing worthwhile ever is. That doesn't mean I shouldn't be doing it.

Little Fish would love a younger sibling, for however long or short a time. Mog just thinks small children are funny, especially when they cry. I know what I want. And I know there are so many children out there, surely one at least must be in need of our kind of fruit-loop family? It's been nine months since we were needed for anything more than a very planned respite; three years before that. In those three years, my girls have had two new first cousins, two second cousins (with a third on the way), and have seen friends' and classmates' families grow by one or sometimes two siblings. And yet we wait, knowing we will always be at the bottom of the list, only used once there aren't any spare beds anywhere else, and the "Mumma, why I not have a baby?" question gets as hard to answer as the "Mumma, why I not got a Daddy?"

It is of course right that the child should go to the best possible place. It is right to have more than one family under consideration; children should not be placed by defaultbut after careful consideration of all the options. Plans can and should and do change at the last minute. And decisions should always be based on what's right for the child. But another time, I'd like to see "Thanks for your kind offer, but you won't be needed" replaced with "I'm really sorry, but..." I didn't offer; you asked me, and I said yes. Now you're saying no, please be aware I might find this somewhat disappointing. And please don't prolong the phonecall by talking about something non-urgent which could wait for a while.

Tia

*I'd here just like to say that any regulation which actually works for the good of the child, which keeps the child safe and is genuinely child-centered, has my full support.

You'll be glad to know we did in fact all wake up this morning. Some of us rather earlier than we might have chosen. And as I stepped out of my bedroom, my foot was grabbed by a Lion Gotcha-cat living up to his name in not quite the way we intended when we named him.Ow!
Tia

Little Fish is into promises at the moment.

"Do you promise to pick me up from school, Mumma?"

"Do you promise you love me, Mummy?"

"Do you promise I will wake up in the morning?"

I don't like that last question...

So we had a talk about how God is looking after her and watching over her all night long, and that He will keep her safe. And she decided "I like God and Grandad, goodnight, Mummy."

And now she's all tucked up and asleep, and I'm all awake and worried that she might not wake up in the morning.
Tia

From a feline perspective.






Tia

Mog's muscle spasms cause her pain and discomfort and mean she can't sit in a chair but has to lie down as her middle won't bend. Lying down causes increased risk of aspirating secretions and then increased risk of chest infections. Spasms are treated with diazepam. Diazepam relaxes the muscles, meaning fewer spasms, more floppiness, and more sleep. More sleep with more floppiness means less coughing and more secretions building up in the lungs. More secretions mean more chance of infection. They also mean more sleepiness. Solution? Remove the diazepam. But withdrawing the diazepam causes increased muscle tone, which causes further muscle spasms...

Having too many secretions and being doped to the eyeballs results in being sent home from school. Being sent home from school means having to walk with me to pick up Little Fish. It is sleeting. Being overly floppy means needing to be slightly reclined in order to not flop one's head down and obstruct. Which means inhaling sleet. Which means increased risk of chest infections. Etcetera.

So, in an attempt to control the totally uncontrollable, a friend and I have come up with a new concept. We'd like to suggest all ceilings should be coated in velcro. My choice would then be to throw all soft toys, odd socks, spare blankets, cats and other fluffy things up there thus giving me beautifully clear and shiny floors and the brief illusion of a clean house. She'd prefer to stick her children up there - which would also have the clean house effect going nicely.

I think it's a winner, how about you?
Tia

"So, how's normality after your holiday?" asked my friend earlier this evening.

My response was somewhat delayed, busy as I was frying waffles for fifty girls and their leaders, and arbitrating the great maple syrup debate. And as I reflected on the possibly that frying waffles for fifty was not the most normal of occupations, I considered the rest of the day.

The small child sitting next to me as I was on the telephone, singing very loudly "Bob the Builder, HE CAN'T FIX IT!"

The cat who has decided the front door is scary and now prefers to come and go through the sitting room window.

The small child sending texts to an imaginary (I hope) hippopotamus, inviting said hippo to go out for ice cream in Grannie's new yellow car.

The other two cats, belting up and down the hallway, chasing the wrapper from a bisacodyl suppository.

The online grocery shop, which included 29 items, 27 of which were cat-related.

The small child deciding "You are the baby and I am the Daddy. Right, WAKE UP BABY!" before beetling off to find her baby doll, who is now officially the Mummy. And the child stripping said doll, and attempting to persuade the small cat to wear a pink cardigan. And the cat not cooperating but not removing child's arm or running away either.

The larger child still adamant that Norah Jones is the only acceptable music to listen to, but conceding Matt Redman as a barely viable alternative. And the younger child now singing "Blessed be the name of That Door."

And then looking around the church hall, as those Guides who were not currently eating waffles or attempting to fill every little dimple in their little waffly heart with the perfect mixture of chocolate spread, sugar and lemon, chased each other up and down with chopsticks for the great noodle relay.

And I realised once again that our normal is not like other normals, and I didn't have any idea how to answer my friend's casual question. She probably regrets asking it now!

Tia