The day vomiting nearly killed me

We have had a week of excessive vomiting at Moose Towers.  Willow kicked things off with a couple of days of exploding all over the floor, her bed and her mummy.  And it stank.  In between bouts of vomiting she mostly seemed fine, unfortunately that gave us naff all time to react.  Then Holly followed and finally at 4am on Tuesday morning the gastro-lurgieitis hit me with catastrophic consequences.

The first bout had me spewing the largest volume of half disgested lamb burger and hot chocolate ever seen, litres of it I tell you.  What didn’t leave by my mouth, lodged up my nose.  I will never eat lamb burger again.  I didn’t feel unwell for long beforehand and felt okay afterwards, so I went back to sleep.

At 6am I ‘woke up’ halfway down the staircase, on my head, wondering how I had fallen so far out of bed.  It turns out, and I vaguely remember reaching for my dressing gown, I had got up again to spew, made it to the hallway, passed out and crashed through the babygate on my way to my uncomfortable landing spot.  I now have an aching neck and, inexplicably, a bruised arse.  I still made it to the loo to vom though.  Hero.

Note my use of phrase ‘pass out’ as I have never fainted in my life.  I am the one who mocks fainters.

Life seems to be returning to normal now, but jeez, babies make you sick.

Merry Christmas, cough.

Another Christmas over and another year survived.  I had the official Cough From Hell over xmas itself, bloodied phlegm ‘n all, so that was pleasant.  We stayed at Holly’s nan’s but I ended up driving home at 3am as my coughing was disturbing Willow (and probably everyone else) to the point she had to move into our single bed, thus evicting me.  I couldn’t really sleep anyway and did manage a few hours kip once home.  Then I went to bed at 8pm on Boxing Day.  I was even off food.

Which actually set me up kinda nicely for the New Year Resolutional Diet.  I don’t really fit into my work trousers at the moment but refuse to buy any more, so life is a bit uncomfortable and the slimming can’t come soon enough. I also have a wee jaunt to Scotland in the pipeline that I could do with some semblance of fitness for.  It won’t be much but at least it should mean I don’t suffer the dreaded Year-Without-Ice.

I got a few bottles of whisky for Christmas, that I am determined will last me longer than usual.  ‘Tis the New World Order after all, so drink is being rationed.  I got Holly a coffee grinder, beans and an Aeropress, and I must say grinding one’s own beans is something of a revelation.  The Nespresso machine is now our lesser coffee system (so middle class, darling).

Willow got too much to mention, enjoyed Christmas and only pulled the tree down on herself the once.  She has taken to toddling around screaming though, very loudly.  She’ll grow out of it.  Her finest pronounced word is currently ‘turtle’, even though she is clearly referring to a tortoise.  Bloody Americanisms.

We stayed with Gavin, Jane and Arthur at New Year, having a quiet night in eating curry and playing board games, including His & Hers – the most sexist game in existence.  ‘Men, name the K in this picture’ – Kalashnikov. ‘Women, guess the cup size of this bra’.  Those were actual questions. The ladies had a lot of questions about knitting too.  Willow and Arthur shared their first kiss on New Year’s Day, though I am not sure Arthur really knew what was happening to him.

Oh, and we had a mouse in the house. But he went away.