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ailbheLife when you're one and three-quarters: constant swallowing makes it easier to breathe, so you glug milk like there's no tomorrow. Eventually, the mucus you're swallowing is rejected by the stomach or points north thereof, and comes back up, bringing with it all that lovely milk and several totally unchewed lumps of potato. Then the fever sets in and we can all heave a sigh of relief that at long, long last your immune system has decided to get cracking.
Oh, but now it's MY fault you're poorly and I'm utterly rejected in favour of Daddy. Until you want milk again, presumably.
It's hard to sleep when you're ill like this, though. For, ahahaha, everyone.
(As I recover, Rob is getting worse, and as Linnea recovers, Emer is getting worse. Oh well.)
Oh, but now it's MY fault you're poorly and I'm utterly rejected in favour of Daddy. Until you want milk again, presumably.
It's hard to sleep when you're ill like this, though. For, ahahaha, everyone.
(As I recover, Rob is getting worse, and as Linnea recovers, Emer is getting worse. Oh well.)