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Category Archives: Life with two small folk

We stop and glance into the restaurant.
Gone are the days of glancing the menu to make the decision…
Yep, there are other kids… We are good.
We go in.
But wait.
Those kids are SITTING.
WTF? Are they like plastic decoys or something.
It’s too late though, we have shuffled in…
I continue scanning.
Nope, definitely all sitting.
What kind of trick is this??!!
How is it possible that these children are sitting, are they glued to their seats? Is this witchcraft?
For I have Learnt, if sitting even successfully happens in the first place…
That somewhere between “can I take your order” and “Bon appetite” restaurant chairs clearly evolve to grow red hot spikes, like electrified cactuses, the force my band of ferals to raise, possessed, from their seats and start running around, screaming, wailing, lashing manically like a cat in heat…
Never have I had one of these mythical glue chairs I can clearly see scattered throughout this restaurant that enables a child to remain stuck, seated, in one position for the duration of the meal… Foolishly, I look around at the delightfully seated children, and wonder if maybe, just maybe, this time we will get a glue chair.

And thus it was, as my little family shuffled into the cute little alfresco dining, with the perfectly postcard street umbrellas shading the well laid out little tables, and the hanging baskets dripping, raining, with a rainbow of healthy blossoms, on the sunny streets of Brussels after a day of ” enjoying each other’s company on a pleasant family holiday” ( read, trying not to kill each other whilst sending “death eyes” across the room whilst muttering evil curses towards the other under our breath and eventually cracking the utter sh*ts and simply taking off walking a foreign city alone with two wayward ferals and an expanding baby bump whilst his “lordshit” had a nap…)

Gone are the days of pouring over a menu tantalisingly…
Laughing, joking… Smiling…
Heck… Long gone are the days where conversation is so freely flowing and warm that the menu isn’t even opened before the first eager waiter appears at your table… Causing you to let out that obnoxious laugh of young people in love… With no kids.

No, menu reading today is now an exercise in speed reading. It is a contest to scan the entire volumes of food quicker than humanly possible to admit defeat that no, Vegemite sandwiches are not in offer darling, is there ANYTHING, F’ing anything, that you might eat…
It is now a talented skill to be able to scan the kids section, plus the adults section, plus the drinks, all whilst watching to make sure a little hand has not shot out at the speed of light to grab the flower vase, or salt, or knives, or anything not utterly nailed down and used it in an assault launch on their sibling… Or other diners.
It is trickier than a game of twister, the skill of juggling turning pages of a menu at lightning speed, intercepting any table missiles launched through slow detection of before mentioned hand all whilst hurling your whole body in a “go go gadget” manoeuvre to capture any escaping child via their collars before they disappear entirely.
And then somehow, when the waiter appears, not smiling as he glares at the dishevelled terrors before him and the inevitable “salt art” being created on the nice clean table, you order something that you may or may not have seen on the menu, cosy in the knowledge that neither of the kids will eat any bloody thing you choose for them, your meal will be cold before you get to touch it, if you get to touch it, and despite looking pleadingly, the waiter will still insist on bringing the kids fancy glassware for their juices and steak knives for their meal. Knives god dammit!!?? Does this guy have a death wish! No, for the love of good, don’t give my child the knife! Too late… Which will then become a further assault launch option available to them on the table.

By now… The cactus spikes in the kids seats must be searing hot and radioactive, for both of them are jumping out as if their little arses are on fire from the bites of a million bull ants. Screaming, whinging, carrying on. Extending the table items warfare past each other and now inflicting mass destruction on the tables of surrounding diners.

Our most stern hisses and reprimands falling on deaf ears, drowned out by the raucous giggles as one causes the other to run full tilt into an umbrella stand…
Our yelling gets louder. More insistent… More desperate begging, pleading.
We have past the stage where bribery works…
We are past the point of return.
The food arrives.
It looks delicious.
We salivate in anticipation, like pavlov’s dogs, only to accept that this will be another meal untouched… As one has taken off their shoes and is performing a “punch and Judy style puppet foot play” on the table ( causing some almighty looks of disproval from surrounding diners who clearly did not wish to be entertained by the sight of ten filthy toes whilst eating their dinner) while the other has started crying. That long, low, I am not planning to stop anytime soon, nothing you can do to placate me cry…

I attempt to eat dinner with the screaming banshee thrashing on my lap. A further skill is the ability to pick menu items that can be eaten one handed. Cutlery is an opulent luxury these days, one I have not enjoyed in some time…
While hubby’s dinner turns cold as he has drags the puppeteer up the street for a stern talking to, and likely a deserved butt slapping, out of ear and eye sight of our fellow diners.
They return.
We try to bribe them again. It is to no avail.
We make the theatrical song and dance of how amazing their food looks, and truly it does… We have even managed to select a variety of foods which both have eaten within the last week…
But are met with the defiant cries of “no it’s disgusting” ( where the F did they learn that word?!)
We attempt the oldest parenting tricks in the book – quick eat it before I do or I give it to your brother / sister.
Nope, their resolve is dead fast. Damn it. Stubborn little bastards truly are my children.

And thus, another 60 euros well spent, as we admit defeat, pay for our cold, untouched meals and drag the little terrors out of there, under the disproving eyes of our fellow diners and their picture perfect, glued on children ( seriously, how the F are they doing that?!)

Two steps up the street and cue the tantrum…
Waaaaaaaaaah, ( it sounds like a bomb alarm, diners nearly drop to the floor) passers by jump out of the way higher and farther than Olympic champions…
I want to go back.
I want my dinner…
Oh, and my favourite,..
I want ice cream.

No way are you having ice cream.
Ice cream is a special treat, only if you’re good.
Were you good at dinner? “Yes”
What do you mean yes? Did you stay sitting “yes” were you quiet? “Yes” did you listen to mummy and daddy? “Yes” did you eat your dinner “yes”
Whaaaaaat? What crazy parallel universe did this kid just spend the last thirty mins in??

The tantrum grows.
We are now full scale meltdown on the grubby dirt, possessed by the devil, arms and legs flailing, demanding ice cream.
Each no is met with a volume increase I wouldn’t have deemed possible.
Walking away results in a rugby tackle at my feet and further display of just how epic a tantrum can be.
I scoop the writhing beast up and fling him over my shoulder like a sack of spuds in a display of my super human strength, inherited as a mother.
Good god this kid weighs a ton. I don’t know how. He doesn’t eat.
He lashes out like a many limbed mythological beast.
I feel my face getting scratched. I wince as a filthy, grubby hand, covered in street dirt and litter is thrust into my mouth, my hair is pulled.
I am now as equally dishevelled as him… But slowly, calmly, I continue walking back to the hotel.
Repeating the same clear directions.
Ice cream is a special treat.
We only get ice cream when we are good.
We were not good at dinner.
I no longer even notice the stares of onlookers as I carry my heavy sack of disobedience home and enjoy a further 15 minutes of the ice cream tantrum.
I admire my core body strength that I am still able to lug him up the four flights of stairs… Although I do ponder what happens as he gets bigger as he is nearing three quarters of my height already… And I do give a moments thought to the growing human inside who just received ( not their first) sibling pummelling…

We fill the bath and toss them in.
Wash off the street dirt,
Drown out their continued moaning.
Discuss calmly the expectations of what being good at dinner looks like.
We ask if they want ice cream tomorrow.
Of course they do.
We tell them we can try again tomorrow and all they need to do is be good.
I swear they laughed.

It is bed time.
I don’t know who is more exhausted. Them or us?
Another fun family day finished with a delightful meal in a most adorable little street side restaurant.. Overlooking the grand beguiling buildings of Brussels.
Roll on tomorrow…

May your food be warm and tasty, wherever this finds you!
Love and hugs world.


“Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths” …


Keeping up with the jones’

Benchmarks are dangerous, fictitious, unachievable standards, set by an alien race whom are trying to bring us undone and take over our planet.
I am sure of it.

And while bench marks are evil in so many parts of our life…
The pure horrendous, soul shattering, life destroying benchmarks are those we fire at babies… Or even more so, their weak, vulnerable mothers ( and fathers!)

The fact that it is often other mummies doing the dirty work to bring down the defeated, sleep deprived parent… Like a lion pouncing on the slowest, limpest member of the deer pack, just makes benchmarks all the more an ugly, torrid affair. And further indicates that they have been the brain child of afore mentioned alien race whom clearly is trying to wipe us out from The roots up… Stop the care takers and plunder any hope for population growth… It will leave the remainder as easy pickings… Bahahahahaha… In fact… It will also scar those that survive because their entire life will now be etched out on an impossible map of the unachievable.

And thus it is…
As my teeeeny tiny baby boy is approaching his third birthday I sit back and review the countless hours I have spent wasted… worrying about stupid bench marks. The funds given to unnecessary doctors appointments, the lotions, potions and medicines, the grey hairs, the wrinkles and the stomach ulcers, the squillion late nights spent basking in the flickering radiation of my computer screen as I desperately read pages grappling for some sense that he has reached some bench mark or another… All this pain, all this stress, all this waste… all a side effect of the benchmark. Time wasted worrying he isn’t up to scratch when in reality I should have just been enjoying his company because somehow, I will wake up next week and he will be THREE! 3!! Seriously… Not that tiny, helpless, wriggling little bundle I brought home three seconds ago… But a sassy, confident, egocentric, talkaholic with the most whacky imagination…
He can climb into his own car seat…
Occasionally use his own cutlery ( if and when he is choosing to eat today)
Climb in and sleep in his own big bed… Without guidance rails!
Laugh at my attempts to sit him on the potty and correct me that no, poop goes in a nappy and can he have a fresh bum please.
He can demand ice cream for three meals a day and throw an epic tantrum, publicly, if said request is denied.
My tiny, helpless, crying, screaming, wriggly little baby is suddenly an independent headstrong, self righteous threenager.

A three year old who DID NOT meet his growth bench marks from the day one…
Did not meet his feeding benchmarks.
Nor his sleeping bench marks.
Did not crawl until far too late and thought walking was for suckers… So gave that benchmark a miss also.
Did not have baby soft skin
Did not like to throw and catch balls
Did not hug teddy bears
Decided the clapping benchmark was over rated… As was the pincer grip and waving.
Clearly the benchmark of singing songs was also best avoided
And the big one. Talking.
Oh that’s right.
My mr chatterbox,.. Who does not ever shut up, did not talk until well after the age of two,
Twenty words at 24 months. I think not.
And while he happily smiled internally knowing he was driving his mum slowly and inevitably more bat shit crazy I fell down the whirl pool of bench mark envy…

What, your child is 6 weeks old and speaks 7 languages already? Oh no! I am clearly a failure!!! ( insert countless days of. Mummy self loathing and hating myself and beating myself up for clearly not spending enough time developing his language skills)

Your child was potty trained before you left hospital?? Good god! What am I doing wrong!
( insert hours of self hate and self doubt and nights thinking he may be better off without me as clearly I am flawed as his mentor)

Your child eats every single vegetable and asks for Brussel sprouts as a snack??
Ok… Your kid is a freak!

I fell for it.
I wasted days, nights, weeks… Stressing about my tiny little micro man.
I spent hours blaming myself, hating myself. Wondering what was wrong with me that somehow, he hadn’t “bench marked” and wasn’t perfect.
Stressing he wasn’t perfect and all because some moron at some point put a number in some book.

But do you know what….
That tiny little baby, who had the community nurse on our door stop every day for nearly the first month of life now stands at over a metre tall and breached the WHO growth charts before he was aged one… ( but now am I to worry that he is in fact a freakish giant because he has superseded the bench mark?!)
That roly, poly little chubba chunka who never wanted to even crawl… Well, now could be an Olympic sprinter because I sure as poop can’t keep up with him…
Forget me struggling to reach my 10,000 steps a day on my bench mark prison bracelet… I reckon if I chucked that fit bit on him we would be tracking well over 20 000 fast paced action steps.
That lazy little bubba who stared blankly at months of valiant attempts to wave and clap… Now walks into a room, claps his hands, to get people’s attention and with a melodramatic wave for effect announces to the world and anyone who’s listening… “Hello people, (micro man) has arrived.”
And words!
Words that would not come…
That were buried under a bench mark of steel weight proportions.
Words that sprouted more grey hairs with bench mark worry than their are even words in the dictionary…
Well… Those words are coming.
They are coming fast and flowing and in a beautiful, nonsensical three year old imaginative way.

I have wasted so long chasing benchmarks that weighed me down with fear.
I have questioned my sanity
I have questioned my ability
I have questioned my perfect little micro man.

The only failure in all the benchmarks unreached was that I listened. That I sat there and listened to the daggers, often thrust by other mummies, and I believed them. I hung my head in shame, I called doctors I researched like a kid before an exam… I didn’t stand up and say screw your bench mark. My kid is perfect. Perfectly him and developing at the perfect rate for him.
He might not meet the number in the book but he is doing everything he is supposed to do at exactly when he is supposed to do it. He is perfect at being himself.
And as there has never been a him before him, then of course there will never be a book with the right “bench marks” for him.
I am the only failure here. I failed my micro man for not being his voice to declare his perfection against the tyranny of bench mark nay Sayers.

Well it’s time to stop.
It’s time for this mumma to learn to shun the benchmark world and instead to listen to the crazy ramblings of her three year old.
Her three year old who thinks food is purely for sculpting onto one’s finger and performing shadow puppet plays.
And you know what. I reckon he may be right.
( if you’ve ever been brave enough to have my cooking, you also would probably agree)

It’s time for this mumma to focus on the real bench marks… The ones that say hey… I might be a late walker, I might be a late talker but I am perfectly normal and I am perfectly me.

My micro man DID throw epic tantrums not only on cue of the benchmarks… But he is so flipping advanced he threw them early. I can therefore only conclude that he is “emotionally advanced”.

He discovered self expression light years before the famous artists… Even if his choice of medium ( poop) was thoroughly questionable. I can therefore declare that he is “creatively gifted”.

He developed insanely advanced gross motor skills and can climb to the top of the craziest places. Ergo we are certain he is “physically ingenious”.

And his body awareness is amazing… Primarily due to the injuries sustained to nearly every body part during his efforts to jump or climb down. From afore mentioned heights. Thus he is “personally sagacious”

Screw benchmarks.
My little micro man is perfect.
Some days he acts 3 years old, some days 33 and some days three minutes old… But every day he fills my world with sunshine, laughter and new experiences and I know I wouldn’t want him any other way.
And don’t even start me on the glowing perfection that is miss z… That’s a whole other blog…

It’s taken me three years,
But maybe my clever little guy is teaching me far more every day than I could ever hope to teach him.

May the benches in your world be unmarked and purely for sitting on…
Wherever this finds you.


What mess?




Time has flown again… Whoosh… And here I find myself, Christmas holidays, on a plane to Singapore with a 7 month old asleep in my lap and my 21 month old curled up on daddy…
When did this wayward wanderer, master of misadventure and unbridled free spirit hang up the reins?
Somehow, somewhere, in the last blink of an eye a few years past and I find myself living in this parallel universe… One I never dared dream of, one not even my verbal barrage of words can describe. A life of “normal” of routine of day to day and of utter bliss.
When I look in the mirror at the new “giggle grooves” etched on my face and I warily count the new ” wisdom hig

Cutest when they're asleep!

Cutest when they’re asleep!

hlights” sprouting in my un-dyed, un styled and usually un brushed hair… Some days I scarce recognise this face looking back at me…

In my dreams I still carry my worldly goods, my dreams and my passions in a small rucksack, throwing caution to the wind and climbing every mountain my feet dare bring me to…. And yet, despite my thoroughly nuclear new existence some days I am blown away at how wrong dreams are and how much more amazing, thrilling and awe inspiring the real deal is… Other days I am simply exhausted at chasing after the small folk. Overwhelmed with the tedium or furious at these shackles that tie me, no matter how deep my love for them is….

What a strange binary existence my life is right now… As I forge forward into the new frontiers of family hood yet grapple to hold onto those long lost elements of free and independent me.

A whirlpool of emotion gets stirred up by this constant tug of war as I search to understand and accept my new identity… Emotion amplified by the hormones of childbirth…. Emotions that are larger than words and often much larger than me…

But as always, while this makes the sad times horrific, the happy highs and blissful love I feel for this little family, our triumphs and our home is the greatest tidal wave of overwhelming pride and contentment that this wanderlusty mummy could ever believe existed.

What these next few years have to offer? Who knows?… But I am sure as I start to accept and understand this new existence and new version of “me” that everything will just keep changing, as it always does and somehow… No matter the package it’s dressed in or the new ways it operates… This Laurie seems to ride it out the other side… And still find room for an adventure… In all it’s forms…

Happy travels through life and hugs to you all…

So, it’s been a while… Oops, sorry to those poor souls out there who actually endure my regular ramblings…

somewhere between driving 5000km, a train derailment delaying our move in, an expanding bump, a suicidal dog and the birth of the new one, six months managed to slip by! Nuts huh?

so let’s just jump forward to today… And worry about the in between later…

and by today, I mean two days ago…

because that’s when it all started.


let’s face it… Toddlers get spots, like ALL. THE. TIME!

So when my ( now very busy, very active – yeah, I need to update all of that too) microman was sporting a delightfully spotty bum a few days ago I thought nothing of it!!

He was still as mental as ever and let’s face it, if I wrapped your bum up with pee absorbing freaky chemical filled materials and made you run about in the 35 degree heat and high humidity the fair chance is you would get a case of spotty bot too…

but alas, the spots began to spread… So of course, this morning, as the usual morning pandemonium started to unfold I uncover that spotty bot now encompasses arms, legs, back, face and well… Child in general…

Still active, still loud, still able to produce more poop than your average gastroenterologist would know what to do with… But mysteriously spotty… And most notably… Off his food. Micro no food? Macro problem!

Of course today is day care day… My little sliver of sunshine in a frantic week… Where miss mango gets some much needed mummy time without micro biting her head, gouging her eyes or generally loving her a little too vigorously… A day where mummy gets a chance to see other mummies and hold conversations where she doesn’t have to refer to herself in the third person… So yes… If there are going to be spots…

there will be spots today…

none one the less, my morning started like any other morning.

wake up at ridiculous o clock, feed baby

try to snatch remaining few hours of sleep before onslaught of baby mayhem takes hold…

awake to hollers from micro

wrestle micro to access nappy for morning change.

get deliberately sprayed by milk from milk bottle bribe

discover nappy full of stench, get arm full of stench as micro flips over and nappy flies through the air, landing messy side down on the floor, of course,

wrestle micro back onto his back,

get bitten,

get kicked by foot that got covered in mess during kicking and flailing spree.

bundle micro into the bath tub.

hose down…

try to call out to calm mango who is now screaming for milk, a fresh nappy, attention or just for the heck of it, who knows?

fish wet wriggly micro out of the bathtub and transfer to the baby cage.

Attempt to dry and nappy. Fail.

Abandon mission and go console now hysterically frantic mango… Who sees me and giggles… Bless her.

resume mission to nappy micro.

Discover pee on the floor. Mental note to clean that later…

Wrangle now nappied micro into high chair… All the while being kicked and eye gouged. Recieve yet another scratch to the face and on my nose.

Offer breakfast and duck as it is thrown with surprising strength and accuracy at my head.

console crying baby.

discover that spots have spread. Debate dressing him in long clothes and taking him to day care anyways…

call medical centre. … Doctors all booked out till late next week ( must remember to schedule intention to be sick or injured at least a week in advance…

call alternate medical centre, closed till next week.. ( they’ve all taken holidays!)

call day care to confirm spot policy and be advised that there are cases of hand foot and mouth going around. Advised to take him to hospital for diagnosis.

Panic a little and stress whilst removing toast from hair… Call hospital to see if I should bring him into emergency as advised by day care… Little other choice…

wrestle to get micro out of high chair and into clothing

console screaming, frantic, hungry baby.

bundle two children into car and drive to town…

discover that boob is sticking out of shirt after a frantic breast feed by mango… Tuck it away grateful that discovery was made before arriving at hospital…

realise that i have not brushed my hair or teeth and have a poopy foot print on my shirt and a scratched nose. Shrug it off…

we have made it to emergency, join the queue. It’s going to be a while… And rightly so… With no doctors at all available in town it’s the only option… So of course this is when mango decides she is now ready for her feed. Survey waiting room full of sick, injured,impaled and dodgy looking characters… Decide it is in their and my best interest to take the travelling circus into adjacent, empty waiting room.

bless micro… Because, one must understand… He is a “free range” child… And as such… DOES NOT like being caged or fenced in by anything!!! This includes frequent temper tantrums at being taken to the park and outright meltdowns at the fact out yard has a gate… So looking at his sad, spotty, snotty face as he was clipped in to the pram as I wrestled to feed the mango I knew we were going to be in for a rough one… I tried a toy, I tried a car, I tried the iPad ( all whilst being munched on) but as inevitable as the fall of the Roman Empire, the hissy fit came…. GET ME OUT OF THIS PRAM!!!!! What choice did I have?? So ( somewhat foolishly) I rescued my little micro from his shackles and let him roam free…

at first it was great.

smiles. Giggles.

hospitals are fun places to explore.

he even came back when called… The first two times…

but slowly… As time ticked on more and more… He stopped coming when called… And started discovering that there was more fun in. The ” staff only” rooms…

Abandoning my pram ( and wallet and phone and keys – safety first Laurie!) and my now crying baby in the capsule, I raced ( whilst tucking my boob away, again) into the staff room to retrieve my now giggling micro.

Alarmingly, even in this condition, the staff actually thought I was a dr for a split second!

Retrieved child. Carry him back to pram, kicking and screaming…

at this time, the worlds friendliest cleaner, who had swept the same patch of corridor at least five times whilst I had been sitting there decided I was safe to approach and came to tell me all about her puppy… Oblivious to the fact I was chasing one ( now manic) toddler who had discovered the automatic doors and was laughing like a mad man as he made a dash for the car park and trying to fit now screaming, frantic baby out of capsule and into the bjorn so that I could chase said toddler…

worlds friendliest cleaner then showed me photos of her new puppy, which in fairness, was very cute… And advised me that there was a kiddy section around a further corner. Brilliant. Let’s try it!

a colouring table. Sweet. Better than nothing. I assume when they see my pram, wallet, phone, keys and empty capsule they will realise I haven’t gone home and i won’t miss my turn to see the doctor.

but alas, with a colouring table comes crayons… Tasty, tasty crayons… Crayons that fly like projectile missiles if launched by a 17 month old… So as I bend down to pick up projectile crayons, each time causing baby in bjorn to cry frantically, worlds friendliest cleaner continues to chase me around to show me the puppy photos!

And in the midst of all this… A text. A red texta no less. And if I thought crayons tasted good, textas are like dessert. In less time that it took to say texta it was in the gob and being sucked on by one delighted toddler. As as the amount of drool to ink ratio got out of whack I was now faced with one completely red faced, red mouthed, red shirted toddler laughing like a mad man!!! ( meanwhile, I am still bouncing whilst trying to console crying baby in bjorn!)

with much effort, scoop up micro man to remove texta only then to discover… The little bugger has done a sneaky second poo!!! Not now micro! Seriously, not now!!!

overly friendly cleaner advises me there is a baby change table around the corner. Thank god for a win!!! And then she looks on as I wrestle to hold micro under one arm, whilst trying to stop him swatting at his sisters head, bounce to keep the baby calm and try to get the nappies, wipes etc etc out of the pram…

Head into disabled toilet with change table. Attempt to change micro.

recieve several kicks. Realise that baby strapped to chest is recieving most kicks. Watch helplessly as wriggling toddler falls off change table towards floor and catch like a true acrobat with my foot. ( all whilst still bouncing) conclude that attempt one is a fail.

scoop up micro and assorted change stuff and head back to pram.. ( get giggles from men in waiting room)

grab capsule, throw change gear in capsule and return to change table. Lock toilet door.

place micro down whilst extracting mango to put her into capsule. Micro of course discovers the toilet. Helpless sigh.

pick him up, man handle him and endure the shrieks and screams of the boy who does not want his bottom wiped ( oh and of course it was ENORMOUS and extra stinky!)  eventually win out, bum is changed. Nappy and subsequent poop is on floor. Dammit!

Place him down… Away from said poop… Try to clean up damages. Realise that mango needs changing too. Listen to micro playing in toilet water whilst halfway through nappy change. Accept that this is inevitable and pray he doesn’t fall in.

meanwhile, micro discovers awesome bathroom acoustics and screams and squeals at top volume to enjoy the echo… ( god only knows what the folks I the waiting room thought I  was doing to him. )

attempt hand washing and collection of baby, changing goods and toddler before re entry into the toilet all to the sounds of the bathroom symphony squealy orchestra.

Emerge, slightly frazzled.

place toddler down to get better grip on baby… Look up to see toddler racing out auto doors. Again. Retrieve toddler… Wrestle him back into pram. Screaming and crying now at maximum volume and intensity. The doctor will see me now.

take texta, dirt and most likely poop covered, screaming, crying, snotty child through to consultation room. Doctor is at first freaked out by incredible redness of mouth… Until I explain it is from the texta he ate…

use several wipes to get through the dirt layers to show rash spots on feet…

Phage to take nappy off again to show spotty bot… And consequently go through extreme drama of getting nappy and pants back on… Much to doctors complete bemusement! ( seriously, there was nothing else for it but to laugh) try to hold micro in strangler hold to look in mouth and ears… And don’t even start me on how hard it was to get a temperature.

the conclusion.

viral rash.

not necessarily hand foot and mouth because there are no blisters… But still could be.

And there is NOTHING we can take for it… Just needs to run its course and we just need to be quarantined… Yes, I might get it and yes, most likely, miss cranky, off her food, crying baby is probably miserable because she is coming down with it… The fact that she has a slight fever would support this…

none the less just over two hours after we first arrived… Pack the travelling circus back into the car and head home.

no day care for us today!!! But hey… They good news is, now that it was lunchtime, I got myself a frozen coke and the machine was even working! Wooohoooo!!! Mummy for the win!!!

hoping to be spot free and ready to tackle the world again in no time!!

sorry for the break in writing… Will try to backdate our adventures soon!!!

may your spots be innocuous wherever they may be!!!




The now mobile micro man... Now with added cheekiness! ;-)

The now mobile micro man… Now with added cheekiness! 😉

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