I was writing a short piece for a publication this week that had me reminiscing on baby milestones, many of which have already passed by for Charlie. Baby’s first belly laugh. Baby’s first peek-a-boo. Baby’s first climb-on-top-of-a-box-and-teeter-perilously-before-toppling-over. I’m going to get weepy about how it all goes so fast now. Well, actually, I’m going to get weepy because I am still desperately jet-lagged and worse still, Charlie achieved the least fun milestone of all this week. Baby’s first barfs!

Oh, baby’s first vomit is awful. You can’t exactly explain to him what’s going on, and alas he can’t grab a bucket before spewing all over me and my side of the bed like he did at 3am today. I think Oliver and Callum were much older when they were first vomitous. Like, more fully formed human beings who could talk. Little baby sickness is just terrible and pathetic.

I got home late from book club last night, so pleased with myself for managing to stay awake past 9pm unlike the rest of the week. But when Charlie woke up crying, and then got sick all over me, I was no longer pleased. I was at the breaking point of this awful week. Between dealing with all the jetlag and the waking up at 4am for the day, the unpacked suitcases, the busy-ness of work, and back to the grind of the did-you-do-your-homework/did-you-pack-your-lunch/did-you-just-hurt-your-brother while still getting back into the general groove of being home after two weeks in England – WELL, yep, it was time to cry. Somehow, thankfully, I managed to get back to sleep. For about 4 hours total sleep last night.

Enough already. I’m going to bed. Before we both start weeping again.

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