is no fun. Especially here, in the one shop which still sells children's clothing.
Now if I'd wanted something for the girls I had some choice.
Quite a lot of choice, actually.
But apparently boys don't need choice. So what we got was this:
But then, roadside pukers can't always be choosers. And it does at least nearly fit...
On the plus side, I may have found a way to skip the queue when handing children in to preschool. Take one small child in a buggy, face the many slightly earlier mothers with their super clean children, and watch one small child do a projectile vomit. They decided we didn't need to wait our turn. And Little Fish decided it was the most exciting thing ever and totally forgot to worry about who was picking her up.
One small child mostly mopped with the aid of a couple of muslins and a packet of wipes. Puke puddle on lap cunningly disguised by artfully draping child with designer cardigan, I called in at the chemist for dioralyte on the way home. And was then beguiled by the scent of fish and chips, and decided to grab myself some for lunch. I put them into the buggy's basket, carefully positioning them away from any drips, and headed home, thinking to myself that the vinegar should be soaked into the chips nicely by the time I had finished cleaning the small child, and so I ought to have just long enough to eat them before our next appointment. It was only after this that I realised just possibly the reaction of the average parent to a small child's projectile vomit would not be "oh, better buy chips for lunch as won't have time to cook" but something more along the lines of either "yuck, sick!" or else "oh my poor baby, let's rush you home and get you sorted out". It's possible I am no longer entirely normal...