My name is Ann

For those of you who were sucking your teeth and wondering when karma was going to turn round and bite me on the bum (I was one of them)… you didn’t have a long wait. Except Karma evidently has lousy aim, and hit an innocent bystander instead. Twice.

Firstly, she tripped Harry up as he climbed up onto our bed this morning, which wouldn’t have been so bad except he was, foolishly, holding his toothbrush between his teeth as he did so. There were copious tears and even a little blood, although he typically refused to let me look in his mouth, pushing me firmly away after his crying had ended. He probably thought I was attracting the lightning.

He wasn’t wrong. I came downstairs with a now-cheerful-again little follower, and left him, as usual, on the lowest landing, two steps above the ground. If you stay to watch his descent he showboats shamelessly; left to himself he is a reliable descender of stairs. He does, however, occasionally find the swinging properties of the open stairgate too much to resist.

Well, karma missed me again, the stupid bitch. I had got as far as the tumble dryer and was ferreting for my gym kit – a prime opportunity to electrocute or wallop me completely passed over – when there was a heavy thump, a roar, a chin graze and an alarming amount of blood in his mouth. Pretty soon the screams were at fever pitch and the blood had spread itself about my shoulders and industrial sports bra – thinly, but a lonnnng way.

Poor, unhappy boy. He’s cried himself to sleep in my arms, and is now lay on the sofa in uneasy rest, sporting a lip like a bratwurst. I daren’t wipe any more blood off in case I hurt him. I’m dreading him waking up, too, because misery is inevitable. He’s gonna be scary-mean.

poorly boy

My sad little man. He’s obviously thumped his chin hard, and sent his top teeth sinking deep into his lower lip.

bust lip

*readers recoil squealing in horror*

As if ramming a toothbrush half way to tummy-land AND having itchy eczema around his mouth weren’t enough for one morning. Karma can bite me. Accurately, please.

I am off to perch nervously on the sofa and see if I can load (‘insert’ sounds so… descriptive…) a paracetamol suppository without him waking. He shouldn’t have to suffer for his mother’s sins, poor lad.

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