Breathe baby, breathe...

Frog officially has asthma. 

Really really scary asthma.

Last night I sat in a rocking armchair in the local hospital and sang "Puff the Magic Dragon" over and over because it was the only way we could keep Frog holding the nebuliser.

In between we sang Christmas carols and she insisted Granny do Incy Wincy spider several times.

I would have danced and sang and performed complicated gymnastics if it meant she was going to breathe.

When we arrived her oxygen sats were below 94... and three hours later we managed to get to 97 which meant we could go home and manage her with a ventolin puffer.

I've had two hours fractured sleep punctuated by a never ending cough that terrifies me because I'm still learning it all and I don't know if I'm doing it right, and if she's suddenly going to stop breathing again.

She has the shakes from the combination of redipred and constant ventolin.

Mum and I are still recovering from the flashbacks of the last time we were in a hospital with one of my babies at Christmas. And the dawning realisation that asthma is just as risky and scary and I don't know if I can do all this again. 

I'm holding on for WonderMan to get home so I can get the hug I so desperately need right now. 

Frog needs me to make it all better, but I need someone too.

In the meantime I'm just helping her breathe. Forcing myself to breathe.

And holding onto my baby as if the love can flow from my skin to hers and make her well.

I hope so.