21 September 2007

Murphy’s law.

My wife is away, at Käringön. That’s a wonderful little island outside of Orust, on the west coast of Sweden. She is there with some girlfriends – eating, drinking and enjoying life. Well deserved.

I’m at home with the boys. After the obligatory "yhhs yhhs" with "oh-oohn" and "inn-inn" (Friday cozy night with pop corn and pretzels – in Abbe language), I put the two boys to bed, poured myself a glass of wine and watched the future stars of Idol 2007.

Just as I sat down in front of the computer with the second glass of Friday wine, to write a bit on the blog, I hear what sounded like a dog barking, coming from upstairs. Abbe has got croup.

First time he had it we had to stay at the hospital for a couple of days, him and I. The second time we spent half the night in a waiting room at the Pediatric A&E, with the front door wide open (cold air is good for croup, in case you didn’t know).

And now?

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