Happy Monday, one and all. I'm off work, because DD was throwing up all night (first time was a projectile all over me and our bedclothes - lots of effort went into not gagging and being sick myself. Yum), and now seems to have some mystery thing. She's absolutely fine, quite perky and happy, but just had a mouthful of toast, which immediately re-appeared, along with the last remaining contents of her stomach.
Oh and you know the scratchy scalp? Not pregnancy scratchiness...it's was nits. FUCKING NITS. Excuse the language, I bloody hate the little fuckers. Nothing short of a nuke seems to work on them. Once I found the nit comb, there they all were. Dozens of the buggers on both DD and me. DP only had a couple of babies - I don't think they like his hair for some reason, and jump ship over to us as soon as their bastard legs can carry them.
Having spent 3 years teaching DD how every living thing deserves to be looked after - even the snails have a right to exist in my garden, despite being bloody annoying when they eat my veg - suddenly DD sees the dark side to me, as I explain in minute detail exactly what torturous revenge I would like to exact on these bugs, and deliberately try to extract them still alive just so I can drop them in boiling water and see them die in agony. (Am obviously crediting them with a nervous system here, they probably don't really care - one more reason to hate them!)
So headlice and mystery tummy bug, awesome. Parenthood rocks sometimes! (Just not at this precise moment in time.)