6:00 am Léon arrives at the foot of my bed and announces 'Mum I'm sick'. He'd been complaining about a sore throat last night so I offer him a strepsil. 'No I mean vomit sick'. Great! 'Is it all over your bed?' I ask, assuming the worst. 'No I made it to the bathroom', he assures me so I tell him to go lie on the couch and roll over and go back to sleep quietly smiling to myself that child number three has finally reached the age of getting to the loo when he's sick so I now only have two to go. I have to say dealing with piles of puke before it seeps through to the mattress is one of my least favourite parenting jobs, and reaching that level of vomit-awareness is one of my milestones of relief. In particular, given Léon sleeps in the top bunk, Léon reaching it is worth celebrating...
So I lie there two hours in blissful ignorance till 8:05am. I'm just getting ready when a totally appalled Charlotte bursts in to my room on her way out to the bus and shouts 'Mum - the bathroom at the top of the stairs is like... covered in puke!'
Joy - so he's worked out to get up, just not to aim - ho hum. Back to the drawing board.
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