We're all sick as dogs here with a rich and streamy cold virus. Except I don't have the freedom to circle my bed three times, climb into it and stay there for days. Mummies aren't allowed to get sick - and that means Mummies don't get better; because the little one sneezes and coughs on me, and the tiny one needs to feed all the time because he's too snotty to get enough milk at one time...and when he does sleep, he sounds so choked up that I can't rest. (Checking him constantly means he can't die. It's the same hoo-doo algebra that says that that gripping your planes elbow rest keeps the bird in the air).
Scary having a tiny sick one, but the doctor says he's OK (the local GP, as well as my phone-tag medical team (Lucy the med student buddy, Sam the nurse sister and Helen the GP next door.) So far Keith has escaped the lurgy.
I would crawl into a corner and weep if Ivy's her new favourite game wasn't to follow me around and pull my pants down.