Dad’s World with Jonathan deBurca Butler
Not only was his world turned upside down by the arrival and then disappearance of Christmas but just a week after getting back to school he has been hit by an almighty head cold.
It crept up on him, like a fog in a crime novel. It started with a cough tickling his throat, gradually, the nose began to run, until finally his jaw just sagged and doleful blue eyes were soon framed by these unsightly red lids.
By the evening of his first day playing host to this unwelcome guest he was exhausted. We decided to go forgo his bath that night and get him into bed for a good night’s sleep. Little did we know.
At around 8.30pm and not 40 minutes after we had put him down we heard this almighty wail from above.
Initially, we got such a fright that we didn’t know whether it was an amorous feline congress or a woman at a Mexican wake. It was of course Fionn. The problem? His new duvet. It wasn’t on the right way and for that he needed help. Normally, he would deal with that kind of thing himself but illness has a tendency to turn the minor into the major.
The next few hours passed off peacefully enough but as I settled down to watch some FA Cup highlights and Ciara went off to bed, the alarm was raised again. This time Fionn was not so sure what the problem was and Ciara managed to get him back under the covers fairly quickly. Calm returned to our little house on the prairie at least until midnight when the banshee struck again. This time it was a nightmare, so I traipse upstairs and haul Fionn out of bed.
He is hot, bothered and all over the place. I carry him downstairs, get him some water before bringing him for a quick wee and back to his room. As he sits on my knee, I beg him not to wake us again. He rubs his bed head, licks his lips and nods like a mechanical doll. He looks at me. He seems so out of it that for all I know he could be staring at a giant speaking turnip.
I decide to hit the hay myself. I get the guts of maybe half an hour when he wakes again. He is on his knees talking gibberish, and talking gibberish loudly. I’m getting cross now. I know I shouldn’t be. The child is sick. The child is just three and a half. I plead with him and put him down again.
“Will we try bringing him into the bed,” says Ciara, attempting to talk to me from under her pillow.
“Never”, I reply and remind her of the horror stories of others who have done the same and face the prospect of having their children being with them in the scratcher until their 21st birthdays.
The two of us lie there turning over like kung fu fish on the deck of a trawler. Somewhere in those early hours we must have got a little sleep because the next time my eyes opened the clock said 3.30am. I went into him again and this time for the last time.
When I came back to bed, I could feel myself grinding my teeth. My jaws were tensing up. I wanted to roar my head off but thankfully my logic told me to keep my stupid mouth shut.
“I’m not going in there again. If I have to go in there again, I’ll bloody well...”
I didn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t need to. Ciara understood. He woke twice more before we all woke at 6am.
When Fionn eventually came down the stairs, he sat at the table. His eyes were still red, his nose was still runny and his whole being somewhat listless.
I was in a fog of exhaustion. We said nothing, sat down and had our breakfast. Quietly, he offered me a grape.
“No thanks,” I said.
“I’m sorry I woke you up last night”, he said, struggling to eat, breathe and speak at the same time. He looked straight ahead of himself and into his bowl of grapes.
I said nothing. I should have told him it was OK.
