The technicolour yawn

Yesterday was a fairly busy day. I didn’t get up at half 5 with Fifi (at least I think I didn’t, it might have been Wednesday, I’ve officially lost track now) and it ended rather late too.

You see a while back when we were in an official panic to get someone before we left the house, I reversed off the drive with two children hollering in the back, and Wifey trying to talk to me and managed to break our near side wing mirror. All that I managed to break was a small metal pin, about half the length of a Bic biro. Everything else, all the electrics, the glass, the casing, etc were all fine. But such is the way Vauxhall and all car makers design these things, the whole unit needed replacing. And our friendly local Vauxhall dealership wanted £180 to source the wing mirror and fit it. This is something I baulked at doing as its a lot of money and, until it got really hot, something black tape was a much cheaper remedy for. Unfortunately in the heat the adhesive on the tape isn’t as good and it was becoming a bit impractical to say the least.

So I bit the bullet and went onto ebay and bought a brand spanking new assembly for £43. That’s what I spent last night fitting, saving us almost £140. Which was nice.

But such is the way of the world, a late night and a substantial saving are usually followed by some sort of universe paying you back karma type thing. It was just gone 11pm (a time by which I am usually asleep I might add) and my bath was just run. Pants were off, leg was lifted for some hot bath action, when the all too familar cry of “Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!!!” went up. Wifey, bless her cotton socks (which were in the washbin by that late hour) said she’d go and see the fella so I could have my soak in peace but it was not to be.

Exorcist sick isn’t a phrase I use everyday but I feel it was appropriate here. It wasn’t as bad as the winter vomiting M’laddo had the other year, I spent half the night picking chunks of vomit out of my buttock crevice that time, but it wasn’t pleasant. I took the poor wee lad into the bath with me once he’d finished puking and Wifey, to her eternal credit given how much she hates puke (almost as much as I hate poo), scraped out the half digested pasta and put the washing machine on.

Part of being a mummy appears to be sleeping in the recently vomit sodden bed of your eldest child, while your eldest child sleeps on your side of the bed with his dad, giving you the worry that there will be part 2 on a bed that doesn’t have a waterproof mattress protector.

Fortunately though there wasn’t and after a brief discussion over why people always seem to puke first at night, the wee fella and I both went to sleep.