If you are not yourself familiar with the joys of parenting a poorly toddler, you are probably thinking that a commitment-free week sounds quite nice. Perhaps you are imagining getting an early start on your spring cleaning, or alphabetising your spice rack. This is far from my reality. If anything, the house is less tidy than ever. There are shoes everywhere, and each time I try to tidy them away, I am in for another round of put shoes on, take shoes off, so it’s really not worth the risk. The mountain of vomit drenched clothing, which I was competently working my way through at the weekend, has now mixed in with the recycling and become an avalanche of filth that has taken the utility room by force. We don’t go in there anymore, for the fear we may not come out alive.
Apart from my husband, whose conversational flair in the evening can be matched only by Ebony herself, and a brief visit from my parents (who I think mostly come to remove stale kidney beans in the hope of ensuring their granddaughter makes it to at least two years of age before being taken away by the state), I haven’t seen another adult for six days. Not even the postman.
Please, send help.