I have survived two kids’ birthday parties, conjunctivitis, three bouts of diarrhoea and vomiting, four sleepless nights and a cold sore.
I am a freakin’ hero.
My husband is a crime-fighting/enabling, sick bowl-fetching hero.
Lowest point: driving the kids home at 8am in their pyjamas because I just wanted to be in my own bed if I was going to be awake all night.
Highest point: helpless with laughter in the bathroom as Andrew is elbow deep in sloppy poo and wiping William’s bum after another shart*:
‘I am a BARRISTER! I was in the national news yesterday!’
Diarrhoea: a great leveller.