Ah, I was spectacularly ill on Wednesday. I was thinking that my strep throat antibiotic experience had allowed it to morph into some other deadly illness, but then was reassured by M. He complained of tummy pain earlier in the week, which I didn’t realise might mean I’d be writhing in pain two days later. He cheerfully threw up twice – you’ve never seen a kid more excited to throw up and carry around an ice cream box in case it happened again.

And at 3 am this morning, S apparently started vomiting uncontrollably – handy the ice cream box was nearby, as the kids share a room. Suzy says S has been up since 3, getting sick again and again. She is totally fine now – I’ve been with her since seven, it is almost ten, and she is merry and joyful. I don’t doubt she’s been ill, but touch wood she’s obviously feeling better. M also says he is well.

The difference between four and thirty five is this: I’m obviously getting better, too, but I am sleeping like I’ve never slept before, and I am ready to snooze more at the drop of a hat. My kids may be able to run around half dressed outside throwing bouncy balls and having secret clubhouse meetings, whereas after about twenty minutes I’m ready for the robe and slippers again.

Tomorrow is Saturday.



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