Do not let this cold mean the return of the sickyness.
I uttered this prayer to whoever is the god, goddess, guardian angel, powerful force or just plain anyone as I rocked a snotty, snuffly, coughing baby back to sleep at 5:30 this morning.
I lie prostrate on the wooden floor so that all of me, except the digit required to type this, is TOUCHING WOOD, as I say: it's been nearly two weeks since we last saw an up-chuck of exorcist proportions.
As I used a pick-axe of a little fingernail to remove the crust that had formed across my beautiful girls nose, I sighed and remembered that this was how it all started.
Oh well, I know the playmat fits in the washing machine, and that having removable white cotton sofa covers that also fit in the machine was far more practical than people realise. I know I CAN do eight loads of washing in a day, but I hope and I pray that I won't have to.
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