This morning, while we were doing the mad dash to get out the door, I ran in cat sick. It was one of those final-straw type moments. I'd brushed teeth, showered myself and my toddler - because who wants to take a shower alone anyway?- dressed her, realised the time (and freaked out) and it was at this moment, when I was throwing nappies and wipes into bags with jeans and bra on but no top and socks, that it happened.
Danny appears. He's washed and changed and it looks like he has even used moisturiser. This angers me.
"Why, why why is there cat sick on the floor?" I yell.
I know that this is a stupid question. The reason there is cat sick on the floor is because the cat was sick on the floor.
"Haha" he says. And then, to Nives: "mummy is cross".
What. Of course I'm cross. There's cat sick on my foot.
"Deal with it" I yell, as I hop to the bathroom to wash my foot, noticing that Nives is taking her socks off and heading straight for the ..... noooooooo
I wash my foot, smirking as I hear the yells of dismay from Danny and the squeals of delight from Nives as she dances in the sick.
And suddenly, even though we are now later than we already were, and even though I just washed a regurgitated cat biscuit off my foot, I'm not angry anymore. Because it's funny now.
I mean, it would have been funnier still if Danny had fallen in the sick, but you can't have everything.