In a heroic effort to gauge our early-morning crisis coping mechanisms, Iain spent last night vomiting into a bucket. And his bed. And his pillows. And his clothes.
He complained of a tummy ache at bedtime, but he does that a lot. Then he threw up in his sleep around 1030. Then again, again, again, again, etc. Eight times, total, by 430 am. We bathed him, stripped the bed twice, mopped the floor and quarantined the teddy bears.
Today, he seems fine. Which is to say: annoying. Demands water, jumps on the bed (frighteningly near my camera), and asks me to fast-forward Harry Potter to the part at Hogwarts (no one likes those icky Dursleys). So far, he's had some water and ginger ale. No food. We'll see where that goes in the course of the day.
In the meantime, wish us luck. We've done 5 or 6 loads of laundry so far. No end in sight!
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