We have just emerged out the other side of a weekend which involved projectile vomiting, stained mattresses and evil eye infections.
It all started with a phone call from Eggie's school on Friday, asking us to pick him up early as his eye was infected and causing him some pain.
Now, three days later, with a stomach virus added to the mix, Eggie is just fine but Dumpie is still recovering from this most cursed of weekends.
Last night, at bedtime, he tugged on Dada's shirt and said, "I going to throw up Dada."
"No you're not Dumpie...now brush your teeth for bed," the husband said, just before executing a panicky side-step to avoid being targeted by a sudden gush of projectile vomit.
As for me, I now resemble a rat. A brown rat to be specific. I've got two swollen eyes which no amount of 'eye-enlarging' white eyeliner is going to fix.
It also means that I can't put in my contact lenses. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, for it means that when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror I don't inadvertently freak myself out with the 'Bride of Chucky' thing I've got going on.
Still, I got off lightly compared to the husband I suppose, who spent the better part of the weekend wiping off perpetually dribbling white gunk from the corners of his eyes, and even managed a close call reactionary gag himself whilst cleaning up one rather pungant offering from Egg.
This weekend having been a total write off, we now only have three days (only three days?!) to somehow construct a fabulous little boy's 6th party from scratch...
I'm going to have to take my squinty self back to bed for a power nap/brainstorming session, and see if I can't come up with a better idea for Eggie than my current one, which involves a load of pizza's, a ton of ice-cream and the husband resurrecting his amazing 'Kiddie Disco', thereby helping facilitate the reenactment of a Roman feast, as a dozen or so children hurl themselves around to Abba before festivities culminate in an en masse puking extravaganza.