There are few better ways to spend an afternoon when you are heavily pregnant, than sat in a doctors office, cradling a fevered child while being violently puked on (just ask my Uggs - they got the worst of it).
I got the call yesterday afternoon that I was to go and collect Dumpie from school as he was unwell. Upon arrival I found him lying unresponsively in one of his teachers arms, red with fever and crying softly.
"We're worried about Meningitis" the teacher mouthed to me as my brain went into sudden panic mode. I felt my heart drop and recalled him mentioning a bad headache that morning before school. Apparently Dumps had passed out during 'carpet time' and was drowsy, in pain and his eyes and head hurt.
In a panic I somehow managed to get Dumps home, calling the husband en route, and watching my Ocado delivery guy drive off because I wasn't there. Hauling the big heavy red pushchair down a flight of stairs, I plopped Dumps inside and took off for the doctors at great speed.
Luckily, it turned out not to be more serious than a bad stomach virus, but unfortunately it took getting completely splattered in projectile vomit for the nice young doctor and myself to realise this.
Later that evening, during a consultation with a carpenter, I watched with horror as Egg ran up behind the fellow and started doing 'Air Karate' moves. I knew what was coming, but I was helpless to fend him off. Once Egg decides to do something he will do it. And sure enough, he karate kicked the fellow in the back of the knee before I began bellowing for the husband and nodding sympathetically with humiliation as the man told me that he had cartilage issues in his knees and was lucky he hadn't just fallen to the ground.
In short, it was the day from hell. And how did I end it? Not by curling up in bed with some hot chocolate and a good movie.
No. I peeled open my second giant pomegranate of the day (pregnancy cravings anyone?) and flopped in front of an hour long birthing special called, "One Born Every Minute," which GRAPHICALLY followed the stories of three women in labour.
One woman who had designed a special red hot 'birthing outfit' for the pool, complete with cute little satin skirt, proceeded to deliver her daughter calmly and easily (lucky cow) whilst her 'totally gay but in denial' boyfriend encouraged her on, all the while showering her with accolades before bursting into hysterical tears of joy when it finally emerged.
Another woman freaked out so badly (by this time I was 'cruise control' crunching my pomegranate seeds at triple speed, oblivious to the stains gathering on my shirt) that they had to stick her like a pig with a giant epidural because she wouldn't calm down.
But the third woman was the most off-putting of all. Hugely obese, she unfortunately resembled nothing so much as a pantomime version of Shrek, and waddled into the delivery room, (legs far apart enough to drive a truck through), her skinny 28 year old boyfriend quietly trailing behind like an afterthought. She face planted herself into a bed, then after a short time, bovine-like, she rolled herself over onto one side, gripped then hoisted her own chunky thigh up in the air, then proceeded (much like one might imagine a cow in a barn to do so) to quietly expel the gargantuan 11 pound baby she'd been carrying.
Bish bash bosh. And that my friends, is apparently how it's done.