Ah, the sweet sound of throw-up.
It's not that the spud has never thrown up, but it has been nearly never. With the exception of one spectacular vomit during the chicken-pox episode and three days of small throw-ups over Christmas when he was 15 months old he's been damn fine at keeping down his dinner.
That is not to say that I didn't know exactly what had happened the second he threw up; despite being in my office in the cellar with the blow-heater on while he was upstairs with his Wednesday nanny and the TV. No no, it may have just been a little sound but it was THAT sound. The Sound Of Sick.
After the ruckus had died down and he was lying, newly clothed and clean on the sofa with a wheat pillow clutched to his tum and a little watered down apple juice nearby and I was back in my cellar getting on with some work, he immediately started working me.
Oh yes. He's not that sick. I spent most of the afternoon hightailing it up the stairs trying to rescue his nanny as he practiced a range of vomit sounds followed by big smiles; or answering wails of 'I Want My MUuuUUuuMMMMeeeeee'(sniff sniff sniff) which were followed by 'Mummy, can I have my car?' and more big smiles.
Tonight he took an hour and a half to eat half a piece of toast while watching endless Charlie and Lola repeats, then begged for chocolate milk and then for about 100 books read firstly by Daddy in French and then by Mummy in English.
Every time I asked him about his tummy he said 'it's better' and every time I asked him to go to bed he would sink pathetically into the sofa and moan a little.
He's asleep now, finally. One afternoon vomit and an entire evening of late night frolics. I actually think that he feels it was worth it.
Tonight, the frog and I both feel a little bilious. The frog is already moaning and lying down with a packet of choccie biccies and a little flat ginger beer.
I'm in for a long night.