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Alfie is ill. The jury is out as to whether he has just taken his teething to epic new levels or whether he has caught a low level cold which has compounded his previous teething misery.

Regardless of which it is, Keith and I were treated to an insight into the evolution of man flu as Alfie swung from Woes through Doom and on to MOTHERFUCKINSNAKESONTHEMOTHERFUCKINGPLANE!!!

First he refused to be separated from us, even for a second, and insisted on being held. All well and good unless you are 7 months pregnant and trying to cook dinner at which point a 10kg child might as well be a fully grown hippo.

Then the special comfort food meal I prepared for his benefit (sausages, mash and home made tomato sauce) especially designed to be easy on gums, sore throats and any conceivable other ailing body part was spat out in disgust and fruit demanded in its place. Chopped fruit. In bite size pieces. STAT.


Bedtime Drink? Give me all the moo juice in the land woman, I want it all. STAT MAX!!!

And hitting the grand finale of the day, we had bedtime.

A bedtime of such epic disastrousness that my brain still itches: Although I did learn that my bump is now big enough to prop me up when I doze off sitting on the end of a toddler bed which seems like a skill I can make use of over the next few months.

The problem with Alfie’s man flu is that it seems to turn him into a teeny little control freak. I spent hours last night being arranged by my son into various human origami positions that he considered acceptable for the purposes of being comforted. Just to add to my inner joy the position changed on a fairly regular basis and involved much huffing, shoving and unwilling compromise between what Alfie wanted and what was physically possible for two and a half people on a toddler bed, none of whom have reversible joints.

I tried extracting myself a few times on the basis that I was losing feeling in most of my body but no dice. Sorry, I mean NOMOTHERFUCKINGDICEBITCH!!!

No dignity either when Alfie sat bolt upright as I was crawling out of the room on hands and knees looking like some sagging sofa making a break for freedom. I should have carried on and pretended I always leave a room that way instead of backing up, yes backing up, still on all fours and assuming the last known comforting pose with a barely stifled sob.

I choose to believe that this is a temporary state of being and a compliment that my son finds such comfort in my arms when he is feeling rotten. I choose to believe these things because the idea of my boy taking this kind of behaviour to its logical conclusion in manhood means I might have to look into donating him to the lion’s den at London Zoo. 

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