I shouldn’t have spoken too soon yesterday.
What was it I said?; ‘what other things could possibly happen to me?’. Oh dearie me…
Never, ever, ever tempt fate. Because bad things befall anyone that dares to; as I learnt to my peril yesterday evening.
So the Twinkles and I muddled on through the rest of yesterday afternoon — pretty hard when you feel like shit and you have to do everything twice. I often think that I’d like to live in a bungalow — or a nice ground floor flat — as the promise of ‘no stairs’ is very tempting. Especially when you have two 17+lb bundles to cart around all day. Living on the flat, with no stairs to climb, would be a joy when you have twin babies.
But anyway. We managed perfectly well with the stairs. I tended to my two very snotty, upset, hot, agitated little boys — fed them tea, bathed them, kept them entertained — until it was time for the last bottle before bed. And to be honest, I had been clock watching all day, yearning for this golden hour to arrive.
Don’t get me wrong… generally speaking, I like nothing better than hanging out with my two little friends and, since we’ve dropped the dream feed, the time between putting them to bed and seeing them again in the morning sort of feels
really quite long. I kind of miss them, in a weird way. So I don’t often wish for time to go any faster than it currently seems to. But weighed down with germs, yesterday was hard work and I was looking forward to a nice big glass of gin.
So it was almost 7pm and I was minutes from putting them to bed; their daddy had arrived home — armed with supplies of Calpol and Baby Nurofen — and he just started charging the syringe with medicine for Cosmo when Bertie started coughing.
A MASSIVE coughing fit. In fact, I sat him up and patted his back. Then he YAKKED.
Not a little bit of milky baby vom — like earlier in the day — nope this was BUCKETS of the proper stuff. Four huge hurls of chunder.
All over me.
Not really sure what happened after that point. It’s all a bit of a blur…
I do know that Bertie was whisked upstairs, cleaned up and changed, whilst I tried to extricate myself from my sodden clothes, without getting said vom in my hair, which — incredibly — had managed to get away with just a light spraying. My poor jumper dress (and their feeding cushion) bore the brunt of the devastation; it was SOAKED. I have never — in my adult life — seen anyone projectile vomit in such an impressive way (and I have been inside of a LOT of clubs, with people chundering left right and centre, so it’s surprising to say the least). The boy could win awards — should there ever be a competition in the subject. He could potentially be a world record holder, given yesterday’s attempt.
So back to what I said at the beginning — never, ever tempt fate. Because you can pretty much guarantee that it will turn round and bite you on the bum. Or chunder all down your clothes.
And here endeth the lesson.