“How come you have stopped blogging?”, someone asked me recently. Short answer: I had a baby. Slightly longer answer: I had my third baby, my life is chaos, I got a job as a columnist and it’s all I can do to get that done every week, I’m a perfectionist and it takes me ages to write anything, oh, and my baby got eczema and it’s pretty much taken over our life.
Eczema? Isn’t that just like, a rash? A bit of dry skin, the odd bit of redness behind the knees. That’s what I thought, and almost laughed when the community nurse suggested I apply for disability allowance shortly after the eczema started. Four months on, it has nearly broken me.
I can’t describe to you how awful it is just to see your baby not looking right. This might sound awfully superficial, but I’m sure it’s much deeper than that. There must be something hard-wired into the deeper, older parts of a mother’s brain, to feel ill-at-ease if her baby looks sick.
The skin of a baby ought to be creamy. Babies are bloody hard work, but the pay-off is you get to put your face and nose all over them and shower them with love and kisses and raspberries. With my baby, we went from this: