The Wound-Up Bird Chronicles.

Let me preface what is about to reveal me as a hysterical, highly anxious, catastrophising lunatic with this: if your child has ever suffered with a serious medical condition PLEASE do not hesitate to tell me to get a firm fucking grip. No really, I need you guys to talk me down from the ledge of despair. 

A couple of weeks ago, the baby's cheeks were slightly rosier than usual. No big, I thought she was gearing up for teething. The other two coasted through teething without much drama - at least, I think they did. I am terrible at remembering the specific events of their infancy. This will make me a good mother-in-law, I guess, since I won't be hovering on the sidelines with Helpful Advice On What I Did.  Actually, that's probably BS. I'll be doing exactly that, but with no clue what I'm on about. Take that, future partners!

The cheeks got redder. She broke out in tiny pindots on her trunk. Viral rash, I proclaimed. No problem, babies get them all the time. After cruelly subjecting said rash to fierce ministrations with an unfortunately cold glass to check if the spots blanched, I declared the baby free from immediate demise and promptly filled the glass with wine. Baby's going to live! Salut!

The rash spread. Creases behind elbows and knees flared up. Her cheeks turned livid, and scaled over. You guys, MY HUMAN BABY HAD SCALES. Unclean! Unclean!

As is the way with these things, the dramatic increase in rash-to-baby ratio occurred over the weekend. I debated arranging an out of hours GP appointment for her. I terrified myself on the Internet. 

Monday morning finally rolled around and I rang the surgery at 9 am. She was due for her next set of vaccinations that day as well, which I rescheduled for the following month's clinic. When it was time for our appointment, the doctor cast a careful eye over my pathetic, cranky baby and declared: eczema. 

We were sent home with various steroid creams, bath emollients, industrial sized vats of greasy lotion and a follow-up appointment in ten days. If there's no improvement, she's going to refer us to a dermatologist. 

I was fine getting the prescriptions filled, I was fine getting home, but getting her settled inside I just...lost it. Not in a big way, but there were definitely a few sniffles going on. She's covered in these sore, red, angry patches all over her little body.  She's desperate to scratch her face - it's clearly driving her mad, but I can't let her or it will just get more inflamed. It looks ugly, feels worse and I can't make it go away RIGHT NOW, which I'm desperate to do. 

I don't know why I'm having such a visceral reaction to a common childhood condition. Plenty of children struggle with life-threatening conditions and constant, painful intervention. Sure, my baby may have to deal with eczema flare-ups for the rest of her life - and even then, maybe not. Plenty of kids outgrow it. But I'm sat here on my couch feeling depressed and teary as I glance at her sleeping fitfully in her carseat. 

The strength of feeling being a mother inspires is confusing and difficult sometimes.