Chickenpox completely messed up my newly established weekday routine with a newborn and a toddler.
During June, I had it nailed. In the mornings we’d go to stay and plays, or parks – something centred around Arlo. Rory would sleep, and I’d spend an hour or two giving Arlo some one-on-one time. Afternoons were spent at home, mainly dealing with/feeding Rory, and I didn’t feel so guilty because we’d had a fun morning.
Then the pox hit. First Arlo, then bang on schedule exactly two weeks later, seven week old Rory. There were maybe three days in between where I felt it was safe to leave the house: July – the month of quarantine. (Understandably we were all crawling off the walls. I am hugely grateful for all the nice weather, as I don’t want to think about how much worse it would have been without the use of the garden).
I’m glad I did all that stuff with Arlo in June. It’s the summer holidays now, so all the playgroups are on break. When they start up again, Arlo will be at preschool. Our time of going to playgroups together has come to an unexpectedly abrupt finish.
When I look back, our month with the chickenpox will always mark the close of a very distinct chapter for this family. It’s the end of an era, and it feels quite strange.
Possibly the happiest photos you’ll ever see of someone with chickenpox. Neither of the boys were really ill with it - mild temperatures for the first few days and not massively itchy (Eurax lotion seemed to do the trick for Arlo). Just frustrated at being cooped up at home for so long. Obviously, I had to take photos.
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