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. 


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