By RACHEL MEIZEN
My daughter was three-months-old when I agreed to do a day of work at a local festival. She was my third child and I wasn’t so paranoid about her care. I happily left her with my mum on occasion and she agreed to look after her again.
She’d only ever had breast milk and I expressed enough for the day, leaving some formula just in case I ran late.
I did run late. I was so happy to be out of the house working, and enjoying the day with my husband and son. I rang my mum mid-afternoon and she said my daughter was having a great day and to take my time.
On my way to pick her up I rang my mum to let her know I was on my way and she didn’t sound like herself.
“Cat is vomiting after her feeds,” she said.
I could hear my daughter crying in the background.
“Oh no, I’m on my way. I’ll be there soon.”
My dad answered the door. He looked pensive. Curious, but not yet worried, I walked into the lounge room where my mum was pacing, holding my baby girl in her arms. My eyes were fixed on her. She looked different. My mum put her in my arms and she was a dead weight. Completely limp.