We’ve spent much of the weekend in one hospital or another, as Eoin has been wrestling with a nasty bout of croup for the last few days, and has had to be dosed with steroids at regular intervals. Until this point, I had never encountered croup outside of novels by L. M. Montgomery. Indeed, it appears rather frequently in these, to the extent that I wonder if her sons suffered with it. If they did, she has my sympathy: I hope I never hear that awful choking noise again, though I know that, having had the condition once, Eoin is likely to be prone to it until he gets quite a few years older. I’m sure you’ll be glad to know, though, that we haven’t been breaking out the syrup of ipecac: dosing croupy babies with an emetic may have been de rigueur in the nineteenth century, but for Eoin, I think it really would have been adding insult to injury.
As getting out in the fresh air seemed to help with the coughing, we took advantage of a brief interlude of good weather to visit Barry Island, and, while Eoin’s dad and auntie showed him the sights, introduced him to some friendly dogs, and fed him a sneaky chip or two, I took the opportunity to head off briefly with my camera. After several days of pretty constant worry and sleeplessness, a quarter of an hour of photography proved to be an ideal displacement activity. We were all a lot calmer and happier when we met up again. After all, who could be uncheered by sights like this?
A little chap and his dad, away in the distance, looking over to England:
When I met up with the others, Eoin, thoroughly bolstered by sea air and carbohydrates, was happily shouting “Dog!” Dog!” at a passing husky. There were some tough hours and days to come, but for the moment, we were all feeling as if we had put the blues behind us.