"Dumpitus Eruptus"

The low point of my week had to be last night, in the kitchen around midnight, cuddling a feverish and very ill Dumpie, whilst being repeatedly puked on in a violent fashion, stifling my own gagging reflex as the hot liquid spread down through my hair, onto my back and splashed onto the floor.

Sorry for the graphic details.

Saying that, this morning, in a frantic rush to throw clothes on and get Egg to school before 9 o'clock (our alarm clock froze this morning at precisely 7:21 am) I again found myself craddling the littl'un - this time in our en suite - whilst being showered in yet more hot baby vomit.

I was wearing my expensive All Saints t-shirt at the time, and it is with great shame that I confess I did the school run with wet sick in my hair. (In retrospect I probably shouldn't have made that public to a fellow 'mum', who looked, understandably, horrified at my confession).

Of course the husband was in Sweden on business, so it was left to me to spend a hideous night in our king size bed with a sweaty, feverish monkey who wouldn't take liquids, spent the night moaning and had me contemplating a nightmarish emergency hospital visit on a few occasions.

And it's true. When a child is sick, all they want is their 'Mama'. Usually that's a good thing. But not so much in this case.

(...Not when you've just spent the past 48 hours with a vomiting little gremlin stapled to your tummy like some sort of mutated inside-out fetus)