It’s Summer at last – the best three days of the year!
Actually, for us it hadn’t been the best. Freddie has been really struggling with the heat this weekend.
He had trouble regulating his temperature when he was a tot; any moderately warm sunny day would see him burning up and coming out in a dusty-pink rash all over.
As he got older the situation seemed to improve, and over the past couple of years we have even managed a couple of holidays in Southern Europe where the thermometer has hit 40 degrees at times, and he was absolutely fine. We are careful to keep him well hydrated, and either in the pool or in the shade; and we always take the buggy with its enormous sunshade (which is now a bit warped from being crammed into the kind of tiny suitcase it is necessary to take on a Ryanair flight if you don’t want to end up spending more on your baggage allowance than on your flights and accommodation combined). We’ve had a few running battles over sunhats, too, which have resulted in some very fetching photos of him in a spotty Pudsey bandana looking like someone’s Nan.
This weekend, though, he’s back to struggling again. He was listless and so warm to the touch on Saturday that his Nanna Jean gave him a hot water bottle full of cold water to hold to cool him down.
On Sunday he was listless still, and also grumpy. We could hear other kids in other gardens splashing in paddling pools, and felt guilty that, when we moved to this house, we got rid of the snazzy pool Freddie’s brother and sister had when they were little: we’re on a water meter now, and I’ve had a fight in my hands to stop Daddy drawing a maximum-fill line an inch or two above the bottom of the bath, like they did in WWII.
Then I remembered the little inflatable dinghy that my parents bought many years ago in a fit of seaside enthusiasm when we all went on a communal family holiday. Harry and Lucy were 5 and 2 respectively. We never dared let them have it on water; we always used it inversely, as a supplementary paddling pool. We found it stowed away in a corner of the shed where its rested, untouched, since we moved in. Since Harry and Lucy are now 20 and 17, it’s a testament to the quality of the thing that it still inflates, and stays inflated if you stick a bolt in the end of the valve that’s lost its cap.
By Sunday afternoon, though, Freddie was distressed and burning up. Calpol, the parent’s friend, was the only thing that provided relief, but before the four-hour gap between doses had passed his temperature was beginning to climb again. Yet we could see no obvious signs of illness.
When I went to get him up on Monday he said ‘forehead hurts’. I’d already decided to keep him off school. I opened all the windows and rigged up some makeshift shade in the garden, but he wasn’t in the mood for play.
By lunchtime he was showing signs of a tummy upset, so we spent the hottest part of the day in the relative cool of the downstairs cloakroom. For the rest of the afternoon he lay on the settee on a cotton sheet. He had a strop because I thoughtlessly provided a patterned one instead of a plain white one, so I turned CBeebies on, and that put a stop to that nonsense.
The only fan I could find was another ancient artefact. I might as well have stood there blowing on him myself, to be quite honest. By evening he had no energy left for any kind of nine sense, poor little chap. But Nanna Jean came to the rescue – she remembered that her fancy Dyson heater blows out cold air if you press the wrong button, so she bought it round and we left it trained on him all night. He had a much better night’s sleep: we, however, lay awake picturing the electricity meter whizzing round so fast that it would eventually burst out of the meter cupboard and soar into orbit, decimating members of the Dawn Chorus in a blizzard of feathers on the way.
I don’t know whether the headache and tummy upset were caused by the heat, or whether it was the brewing bug that made him less well able to cope with the temperature. Today he seems a little better and it is a little cooler.
You know, our normal British weather isn’t really all that bad when you think about it.