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.