It has been a challenging week. As we drove back from a weekend up North, Georgie was sick so violently it hit the windscreen, and so copiously I had to scoop it out of the footwell with my bare hands. Parked on the hard shoulder of the M1, I hosed poor naked Georgie down with Ribena – sticky, but better than the alternative – and we drove the remaining four hours home with the windows wide open and the other two retching ominously in the back.
Monday was a write-off. I cancelled a client meeting and worked half-heartedly between bouts of Calpol and Dettol. When Georgie fell asleep, exhausted, I typed feverishly on the sofa beside her, filing two columns and working my way through my inbox.
Tuesday began normally. All three children went to school, meaning I could address anything urgent and catch up on Monday’s admin. But by the evening Josh had succumbed to the bug, vomiting barely swallowed Lucozade across the beige carpet in a lurid demonstration of his ill-heath. He stayed off school for two days, clinging to me so pathetically I could barely go to the loo on my own, let alone sneak off to the office to do some work.
This morning I packed all the children off to school, determined to have the most productive Friday in the history of the freelancer. I would finish that feature; read through the notes from my editor; catch up on my accounts and do the end-of-month invoicing.
By 11am Evie had thrown up in the classroom and was back home with me.
As I write this she is sitting on my lap, weeping gently and occasionally turning to the side to retch into a bowl. I am inured to the smell of vomit, which clings to everything I own. I am resigned to the fact that I will get no more work done this week. I am taking it all in my stride. I am a mother.