– 10:53 pm

We’ve just given you a hot bath. Your love for it is consistent and unwavering. Your mother is upstairs trying to bottlefeed you. I have no idea how she’s getting on. Hopefully well. Unfortunately, you returned with a cold the last time you both went out. You have a cough and a clogged nose.

Kim (Lennon’s mum) picked up some remedies whilst she was out from Boots. She’s the best. Dr Maalouf responded to Liza’s email on what to do with “use saline nose spray four times a day and Calpol twice a day for next 5 days”. She was already giving you the saline spray which helped a great deal. I just oiled your chest with a vapour rub and used a nasal aspirator to suck out the snot. The latter is nowhere near as gross as it sounds. The bedroom is vapoured with lavender and chamomile coming from the plug. It’s so strong I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep in there. My sleep is so easy to disrupt. I definitely don’t need help in that department.

It amazes me how much cheer you still have despite your predicament. It’s not bringing you down at all. Even with a runny nose you still have your smile and bounce. What a child we have. You’re taking it very well. Nevertheless, you hate the spray the most. I’m sorry but it’s for your own good. This moment will pass, eventually. I promise.

Your mother just came downstairs. She said you had about 210ml of Aptamil when I asked. So it looks like eating went well.

There’s a cry you cry that breaks my soul. I know it because I cried it when your grandmother died. You get it from me and I recognise it too well. It’s the most painful thing for me to hear because it’s a pain so true and so genuine. It’s distinct and not an ordinary cry. I heard it again yesterday when I was trying to comfort you. Something wouldn’t let you be, maybe the cold. I couldn’t hold you tighter and there aren’t enough hugs I can give you. It reminds me of the grief that continues to haunt me every waking day. I have to fight to remain whole.