Can I have a wine with that

A kid free day, culminating in a Kid Invasion whereby I was doing my Fellow Mummy And I Empathise thing and helping out a fellow mum who is currently very pregnant and unable to walk due to some pelvic thing going on.

Bloody babies.

Her current only child is most obsessed with Godzilla, therefore, it felt like a sensible thing to do; offer to help her out.

We had him Monday night as well, where he was “beat up” by Chippie, the not quite two year old, and last night, where I had managed to stall the inevitable Wii game playing by racing home from a friend’s house so that I may walk to school. This meant we had to walk home, stalling the At Home time by approximatley 45 minutes, as I also did the “oh, ok, fine them, have a play. But only five minutes, ok?” and leaving 25 minutes later.

Followed up with “oh, no, we don’t play Wii on school nights”.

I relented tonight, after walking home via the childcare centre to collect Chippie.

Monkey Boy enforced his recently (as of seven minutes earlier) acquired aversion to the Wii games being taken off the shelf and being looked at, had a raving tantrum about it just as I commenced the dinner preparation process.

Pots on the flames, Chippie chooses that moment to projective vomit down the stairs. On cleaning it up, comforting him and ensuring nothing burnt, I discovered a car wheel amongst the deluge and took my mind off the situation by trying to work out whether he’d actually swallowed it and that’s what caused the up-chuck, or whether it was dropped by the rampaging children who appear oblivious to such mess once the novelty of the “Euwww” has worn off.

Dinner consumed, Monkey Boy has a tanrum over something else our guest has done, or not done, guest is collected, two youngest in the bath whilst Monkey Boy decides the entire world is against him, so I remove him from the site of entire world – ie me – and locate wine.

Chippie put to bed as Monkey Boy and I sit and have a chat about acceptable behavious, Chippie chooses this moment to vomit again. Into my bed where a very sad and remorseful Monkey Boy was residing, as I set about stripping cot and locating clean pyjamas for him.

Did consider placing him in bath until vomitting had stopped, but as he’d gone back to sleep, I kinda figured our bed would suffice.

Regretted decision moments alter as he turned his head, in his sleep, and threw up on the sheet. Not the sheet from his cot that I’d placed under his head so as to prevent this exact situation, but the newly added sheet on our bed.

It had been there two days.

This caused him to wake. And scream. And scream louder as I tried to undress him and remove sheet and put a towel somewhere in order to catch any further vomit. It seemed to have subsided.

Until he had flappy tanty, displaced towel and vomited over the now exposed woolen underlay, the bed head, all remaining bit of clothing he was still wearing, my right arm and right boob. The right boob bit caused Cleavage Runnage.

Tantrum over vomit covering sock.

(Him, not me)

Total strip of everything.

Grumpy arrived home.

*sigh*

He asks the most sensible questions at the most appropriate times; here we are, me covered in and smelling like vomit, the bed half pulled apart, Chippie naked, smelling of vomit and wiping bits of the socks I’d just removed from his feet and transferring it to his hair.

“Whatcha doing?”

Isn’t it amazinghow much a certain look can convey?

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