Woke this morning to the remnants of my daughter's vomit stuck to me.
Up for two hours in the night as she repeatedly threw up whatever it was that had not agreed with her.
Poor Sofia. Was the first time she has ever been sick, and she was totally freaked.
I cuddled her in.
Vomit and all.
I lay with her in her cot bed (interesting), and waited for the allergic response to pass.
Her breathing to return to normal, her slumber to finally catch up with her.
I berated myself for not giving her the anti-histamine earlier.
If only I had turned on the light, I would have seen her hive covered face.
I think it may have been the posh Madagascan custard. Or was it the fruit in the crumble?
Anyway, this morning, when I first opened my eyes, I wondered if my Valentine had sprinkled rose petals on my pillow.
Then my conscious returned.
And as I caught the stagnant hum of puke in my hair, it was then that I realised.
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