She wanders out to the kitchen, a look of urgency on her face.

“You take me” she directs,

“you take me to the hospital”.

“Why?” I ask.

She rushes down the hallway and I follow. She has picked up her Dorothy the Dinosaur handbag and  starts to pack it.

A plastic mobile phone, a pair of undies (important when you are still in nappies), a drink bottle and “Catty”.

It’s always serious when the Dorothy bag comes out.

So I ask her again, where we are going and she cups my face in her little hands, looks earnestly into my eyes and tells me…

“Take to hospital, Mummy”.

I am starting to worry. Perhaps she knows something that I haven’t picked up on, maybe she is sick.

“Why are we going to the hospital, bubba?” I ask.

” Because *M’s* there, I luff* him. I live with him, he make me feel so betterbetter”.

My sigh is huge.

She is not sick.

Well, she is,

just a bit.

Love sick.

*M*  – paediatrician

*luff is an Ivy – ism for love.