Vomitrocious Henry has been fed, bathed and is already on his third vest of the day. He has bad wind, poor love. I take him downstairs and change his horrid mustardy nappy, then feed him. I rest him on my legs to rearrange my t-shirt, and he throws up all over himself, my legs and the sofa.
I mop it up.
I take off his vest and take it upstairs to the laundry. He fills his nappy. I take him downstairs to change it. As soon as the nappy is off, he pees everywhere, including all over his clothes and in his own hair. While I’m scrabbling for something that’s not already soaked to clean him off, he throws up again.
I mop it up.
I put on a new nappy, a new vest and a new babygro (all of his day clothes are now dirty). He throws up again.
I mop it up. I sit down and cry for three minutes (it helps).
I take him to the weighing clinic smelling of sick and with a urine-soaked mullet. I hope the health visitors do not call Social Services as soon I’ve left the building. I get home, feed him, rock him to sleep, put him upstairs and go to the loo. My watch unstraps itself and falls into the (mercifully empty) toilet. Attempts to fish it out with an old toothbrush are unsuccessful. I use my hand.
We decide that that’s enough of Friday for the time being, and go back to bed.
It’s a good job he’s this adorable, frankly.