There's just one day between Recaro's and mine birthday and it's been taken over by all sorts of body fluids. I already knew I was going to be preoccupied with multiple knicker changes, super-absorbant paper towels and a wide range of potty songs.
I didn't bet on Recaro falling ill and vomiting all day.
What a treat. I feel as if my life could be summarised with a subtitle by Suburban Correspondent.
My birthday dinner last night was fabulous - I'll put up a post about this separately, because I did take lots of photos - unfortunately somewhere along the line, Recaro picked up a bug and has fallen into terrible sickly state.
I hoicked him out of bed after Peaches' bathtime so that I could change the sheets and insist on his having a bath.
Since then, he's asked me in a weak and wavering voice if I would go to the pharmacy for him.
Poor dab. Of course I went. He's now nursing his bottle of Pepto-Bismol and considering when he might attempt to drink some rehydration concentrate.
While I count the minutes between doses, I'm walking that fine line between nursing my husband and drinking beer and blogging. That PB better work. I really don't want to take him (and Peaches) to hospital. I'm a pretty attentive nurse for my sickly husband - just don't push me too far.