We thought we had turned a corner and waved the days of being covered in projectile vomit behind us.
It had been a while since the topic of these blogs was focused on spews, rather than news.
But last week’s trip back to Swindon served as a reminder that while it was a new year, 2019 could well be a case of the same old when it comes to reflux.
Introduction of more solid food often helps babies suffering from this nasty condition to keep things down.
In Albie’s case, this was true, with far fewer sicky episodes recently. He can’t violently return his liquid diet to us any more due to the fact he drinks as infrequently as a camel – and attempts to change this give me more concern that he is suffering from ADHD the way he goes about doing anything other than sit still for a few seconds.
Barely dried from our last visit, Mum’s sofas and now slightly less beige rugs were once again in the firing line one night.
It started as a small dribble in the lounge. A mere inconvenience on the way to changing his nappy ahead of bedtime.
But just a few steps later and Albie’s dummy, presumably acting as a makeshift plug, shot out of his mouth at speed and the projectile scored a direct hit on me.
Three full-on projectile bullseyes later and I was looking like a practice target for David Walliams’ Little Britain character, Maggie. You know, the one who vomits unlikely amounts of stomach contents on unsuspecting victims…
The sick shifted by Maggie was barely an exaggeration in this case. Everything from my beard to my socks was at least dusted by mash and stew, with the entirety of my right forearm coated in the stinky mess.
A photo at this point would have been the ultimate PR shot – but sadly the recovery operation to salvage the dining room rug, wood flooring, two sets of new shoes and a screaming Albie from the sick-storm mayhem took precedence!
We hope that level of regression was a one-off – but he showed signs of his old ways at soft play, with a small offering in a tunnel I was just keen to get out of as soon as possible.
And back home last night, our new DFS sofa (recklessly purchased without any of the swanky cleaning kits or insurance they try to flog you) nearly came a cropper to a resurgence of pasta bolognese. Only some Usain Bolt-speed movements on my part saved its skin for now. My clothes, on the other hand, were in the firing line once again.
We’ll be monitoring the situation in the coming days and hope this little trio was nothing more than a minor setback.