I used to think that the grossest experience I’d have with Aidan would be dealing with the after-effects of an explosive poo that had splattered halfway up his back. This evening, I learned that there’s something much worse.
I had just arrived at granny's and as is often the case when I get home from work, Aidan was more interested in what he was doing than saying hello to me. So in an effort to get some attention, I scooped him up, hoisted him into the air above my head and mouthed an enthusiastic hello.
I had a split-second to wonder why my antics hadn't produced the usual grin before Aidan threw up, his puke dropping straight into my open mouth.
It didn't taste that great. Somehow I managed to resist the urge to add my own vomit to the gobbet now dripping off my chin and running down my shirt. However, I lost no time plonking Aidan back on the floor and racing for the bathroom. Yet even now, after applying liberal quantities of soap and water, I'm sure I can still smell it. I think maybe some of it went up my nose.
Diarrhoea-filled nappies come back, all is forgiven.
