This is Dexter on Saturday morning on his prison diet of dry toast and water. This was by no means a punishment, but as a result of a pretty violent sickness bug that struck Wayne Towers on Friday night. I was called at the pub just after nine o'clock, two sips in to a much-needed white wine spritzer (wild). Husband phoned to tell me that the boy had projectile vomitted, everywhere. I promptly rushed home to find the boy in the bath and the washing machine on.
It was a strangely uniting and grown-up experience. Suddenly, husband and I felt very grown-up and more responsible for a tiny person's welfare than ever. Our 'pet baby' (which is how we sometimes think of him), was really quite poorly, and it was up to us to 'Keep Calm and Do Some Parenting'. This obviously meant phoning my mum and sister for the sagacious words of old-hands in the mummy department. Keep him hydrated, keep him warm and only get really concerned if he is listless or lethargic inbetween bouts of vomming.
Seven Exorcist-type pukes later and the boy was in bed, as were his exhausted parents.