Hot Smoothies and Sick Babbas

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 blanket and mumbling nonsense and this here Mummy had to fathom out a way of getting his rather heavy self up the stairs or else spend the evening sleeping bolt upright on the sofa with said childs legs across mine. And so I lugged him up the stairs like a sack of spuds and all but threw him on to my bed, resolving there and then to take up a fitness regime that would never see me puffing and panting like an old woman ever again.

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 blanket (seen above) and fed nothing but hot chocolate with copious amounts of squirty cream and I want to indulge him, I really, really do, but the blanket is cream for heavens sake and he is Finley and dirt follows him round like the paparazzi follow my Darling Russell Brand and there are some things in this life every Mummy is entitled to keep for herself and after an entire day of junk food yesterday I am feeling obliged to provide him with a little more sustenance than his usual hot chocolate would provide so being of a sneaky Mummy nature I have taken it into my head to whip up a hot chocolate smoothie and fail to mention the inclusion of a handful of good stuff that might go someway to mending his broken little self…

The recipe? Click below to read it…

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