This is a public announcement on behalf of any of you out there with a child who has not had chickenpox.
Finally, four false alarms later, the pox came in the night and stalked across my baby son's pristine skin leaving its fiery footprints behind.
To be more precise, the pox has rampaged across every nook, every cranny, every hill and dale, every fold and, well, pretty much every inch of the spud's epidermis. He has spots on his tum, his bum, his back, his face, his arms and legs and neck. He has spots in his hair, in his ears, up his nose, between his toes, on his willy and on his tongue.
I know that chickenpox can be bad but I've been lulled into complacency by the number of Mums I've spoken to whose offspring 'only had two or three spots really, it was nothing'.
I had no idea it was going to be this bad and while I am technically glad he has it and glad that it's going to be over soon, I feel awful that I was actually relieved when the first spot appeared; I really really want it to be over.
He goes up and down and so do I. We had a good day with some running and playing and planting seeds in the garden but he hasn't eaten solid food in two days and he wakes up every couple of hours in the night screaming in agony.
It's those moments when one's child is blind with pain and before the analgesic cream kicks in that are the worst. The ones where you look at his body in the bath and see it ruined with lumps and covered in pain, well those are almost bearable.
Oh and to cap it off our boiler, barely older than our son, blew up today so we have no hot water and can't even offer him frequent soothing baths without boiling up a million kettles.
Life, I tell you, has been better than this.