Experienced parents will shake their heads and roll their eyes or vice versa, but when my daughter exploded in a fountain of half-digested cereal, sweet potato puree and bile on Thursday night, it was a first for me.
The scary diagnosis with projectile vomiting is an obstruction, but Claire was hydrated and hungry and as two shoulder-blade-level Anomalous Poo Events the following day demonstrated, everything was moving along just fine. She’d spiked a fever earlier in the evening, so maybe it was a tummy bug or blocked eustachian tube.
Now I’ve got it, or something comparable; I get motion sickness just walking around, which really sounds like my inner ear doesn’t it? Ian and Kat were over last night, and Ian in particular clearly wanted to have the sort of grand political row we both used to enjoy so much, but beyond the bare fundamentals of getting the toddler’s needs met I couldn’t form a sentence.
Even this post is being written between trips to the kitchen to cut slices of orange and break off pieces of baguette for Cian. Miss Claire, coated with a thin sheen of spaghetti and meatballs, is cooing at her sock. I think she needs a bath now. My ambition has dwindled from writing a great novel to writing a novel that doesn’t suck to reading a novel again, one day. So why do I feel so happy?