Mardy cow

Ill toddlers are no fun at all. Let's be honest, a fully-well toddler has her moments, between demands to only eat off a green plate, with a green spoon, whilst drinking from a green cup (and yet somehow refusing to eat either broccoli or spinach). But an ill toddler is something else.

Of course you have sympathy for them - their little pale faces peering out from a sweaty halo of hair, and their pleas for, "Cuggle, Mummy."

This sympathy wanes slightly when - for the ninth time that day you have suggested that they get dressed and each time is met with the sort of response you would get suggesting to your husband that you insert hot wires into his testicles. Eventually we compromised by allowing her to spend today dressed as a cow. And telling my husband we could delay on the hot wires thing until next weekend.

Unfortunately, a raging temperature meant we had to remove the cow outfit. Further demands were issued (and met) variously for, "My ice cream nightie!", "Mickey Mouse pyjamas!", "NOT Minnie Mouse, MICKEY Mouse" and, "Iggle Piggle". All of the above were worn, dispatched and vomited on in that exact order.

Iggle Piggle (a brand new birthday present) doesn't sound the same when you press his squeaker, now he's been through a 60 degree spin cycle. He's fine with that though, because he no longer has vomit over his red blanky.

I have done six loads of laundry today. I have scrubbed vomit out of our brand-new hallway carpet. I have shampooed vomit out of the toddler's hair.

Finally it was bedtime. "Night night, bunny," I said. "Mummy loves you."

Silence from the toddler.

"Do you love Mummy?" I prompted.

"Love Monty Cat," replied the toddler. Monty Cat who did absolutely NO cleaning up of vomit. (Unless you count trying to eat her regurgitated bacon.) "Love Monty, Mummy."

Little fucker.

Sleeper cell

We thought we were doing so well. The toddler had slept on the flight. She had napped in the car on the way back from the airport. She had had an afternoon nap to make up for the time difference and had not only gone to bed at the usual time, but had slept through! We were totally winning.

The next day she was a bit groggy, but we got her up at the usual time, she had a good day with her childminder, and again, went to bed at the usual time and slept through. We were clearly the best parents ever at managing children's jetlag.

Until the following night. Oh yes, she went to bed at 7 p.m. as usual. And then, just as we were going to bed at just gone 10 p.m. she woke. And screamed. And screamed. I went in, in case she was ill. She wasn't ill. She was Awake. I used a capital "A" there just to illustrate how awake she actually was.

I held her for a few minutes until she had calmed down, then I grabbed a spare duvet and flopped onto the floor of her bedroom to keep her company until she had drifted off.

"Hand, Mummy," she demanded, sticking her chubby toddler fingers through the cot bars. I held her hand for what seemed like about three weeks. It was probably about five minutes. I began to get pins and needles.

"Go to sleep now," I suggested, letting go of her hand and turning over so she couldn't see my face. The wailing started.

"It's OK, Mummy is here. Go to sleep." It went quiet. After two minutes, I hedged a glance over my shoulder. The toddler was standing up straight in her cot, dangling Toby Bear over the side, right above my head.

"Are you asleep?" I asked. I knew she wasn't asleep. I'm not that poor at childcare. I'm not even sure why I said it.

The toddler giggled and ran to the far end of her cot. This is harder than you might imagine, as she was wearing a toddler sleeping bag. From the far end of her cot, she started singing, "Twinkle winkle ittle aaar. Owwaee wonn aaaaah." As this changed to, "Baa baa back seep avy wool", I realised she was Properly Awake, and the only thing to do would be to start the bedtime routine again.

I brought her downstairs, gave her some milk. ("No! Warm milk, Mummy.") I warmed up the milk, gave it back to her, read her two or three stories, let her play with Monty Cat, then took her back upstairs, brushed her teeth again and put her to bed.

It was 11.30 p.m. by this point.

And the screaming finally subsided at about midnight. (I didn't go back in. Yes, you can judge me for being one of those awful parents who lets the baby cry it out, but we know from experience, the more you go in, the more it sets her back in her sleep routine.)

At about 12.30 a.m. TheBloke (TM) and I finally got to sleep.

At 3 a.m. there was an extremely loud thunderstorm that seemed to be located directly above our house and lasted for about an hour (or about five minutes, I don't know which). TheBloke (TM) and I sat bolt upright like frightened rabbits (not by the thunder, but by the fear that it would wake the toddler. It didn't. We, however, remained awake for at least another hour).

Virtual reality travel may be the way forward.

Plane truth

I have returned, triumphantly, from a delightful holiday with TheBloke (TM), the toddler, and with Mr and Mrs Nunn.

Flying with a toddler is no easier than flying with a baby, but I'm having therapy to get over that part of the trip. The rest was loveliness involving Mickey Mouse, far too much food, and a lot of retail therapy (with free babysitting thrown in).

But... what goes up must come down, and today has mostly been about unpacking. Now, I'm not one to be sentimental, but, let's face it, it's the end of the summer in the UK. It's been a lovely summer, and so far, autumn has had a gentle start. But it's no longer t-shirt and shorts weather.

The thing is though - my t-shirt and shorts, I pack away and wear next year (to the horror of everyone who dreads the emergence of my simultaneously pasty-white and yet quite hairy thighs). But the toddler's summer clothes... she won't wear again. And it's harder somehow because she hasn't grown out of them. They still fit absolutely fine - but they are undoubtedly summer clothes - and she won't be this size next year. So these beautiful little outfits are disappearing, and it is sad.

Table manners are so important.

Having said that, if she keeps eating like she did on holiday, she's not going to fit her winter clothes, nor those put aside for next summer either.

One worrying trend of the holiday is that the toddler has now started addressing us by our first names. Mr Nunn, entering the living room of a morning would inevitably be greeted by the toddler with, "Hello Bob."

Other new phrases included, "More lollies please", "My Mickey Mouse, you go away Mummy" and -at the end of a (for us at least) gruelling flight, on spotting a different aeroplane at the end of the runway, "Green one next." The thought of ever, ever getting on a plane again was very far from our minds at that point. But unfortunately it seems the toddler is in charge. It's a shame that the airline in question was Inter-Arab airways, meaning our next holiday is likely to be Iran, but you can't win every time.

Right. I am off to wallow in jet lag. Here I go now. *Wallowing sounds*