I’ll tell you something. Henry’s immune system really needs to toughen up a bit. I feel like playing it some ‘Eye of the Tiger’ and doing an inspirational jogging montage.
I’ll tell you something else. Baby colds can – in the immortal words of Home Alone – get their ugly, yeller, no-good keisters off my property, before I pump their guts full o’ lead.
If you said ‘one, two, ten’ in your head just then, you get ten gold stars and a delicious cheese pizza, just for you.
(Aside: I just googled the etymology of ‘keister’. I couldn’t help it. My hip-hop life, ladies and gentlemen.)
(Further aside: I daydream quite regularly of buying myself an Oxford dictionary of etymology. Word origins make me go weak at the knees. Hey girl, what’s the Old English root of the word ‘love’? Because I think I lufu…)
Anyway. After only a week of wellness, Henry caught another baby’s cold on Saturday and threw himself into it with enthusiasm. On days like today, I just need to accept that I won’t be getting anything done, and we should drink warm milk, eat strawberry yoghurt, pull stupid faces at my phone camera and cuddle up under a duvet to watch big-screen movies.
He was profoundly moved by The King’s Speech. I could tell.