Heavens to Betsy there is no rest for the wicked is there? This is my gorgeous little boy asleep on the sofa last night, with a sick-bowl at his side and a Mummy yet again on sick-babba tenterhooks after this cute little one revealed that he had ate a malt vinegar crisp of the kind a child with Coeliacs Disease should not even consider, when it was offered to him, because he was too polite to say no to the unsuspecting classmate who proffered it.
Only a couple of hours later we had taken a rather special trip to Mcdonalds with Finn’s bestest little friend Eleanor, where after much negotiation, we managed to secure a burger without a bun, (of the kind that was a burger that had not been taken out of a bun), lots of fries and a McFlurry which our two little munchkins can be seen proudly showing off below.
Though Finn seemed a little peaky, his eyes a little suspect and he developed a couple of tomato ketchup related spots on his face while we ate, all seemed relatively normal as Kath choked on a chip, made more mess than any woman with a cleaning obsession like hers should dare to put her name to and told a litany of truly terrible Knock Knock jokes one after the other.
So far so very normal, so far so very Kath.
And then he got sick. We arrived at my Mums and he made his way to the toilet and then sat and sobbed. His head had screeching dogs in it. He was burping past himself (never a good sign) and feeling terribly sorry for himself as he finally revealed the malt vinegar crispy truth.
I took him home and snuggled him up on the sofa. It got late. He was fast asleep, wrapped in a
And then we slept, him and I. Him beside me for the first time in ages. So I could lie looking at him sleep. Placing a Mothers worried hand on his forehead from time to time and sitting him up when an un-related rapidly developing chest infection seemed to be getting a grip. Staring at the little boy I grew in my tummy and wondering how he ever got to be eight years old.
And so here we are again. One child off school and one Mummy behind on her work. Two steps forward, three steps back, for Lord forbid, that I should ever gather a little momentum when the universe exists to constantly poke me in the chest and remind me that nothing but this child matters. Nothing upon nothing upon nothing.
His face is hurting. His ears are wriggly. He is backwards and forwards to the loo and begging to be wrapped in my gorgeous new snuggly, suedey, creamy
The recipe? Click below to read it…