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)