I lay him down to change his nappy, but he doesn't want his nappy changed. He howls and screams as I wrestle his trousers off. I look at the time. I used to step into Starbucks every morning around now, I think.
Just as I manage to whip off Pampers's finest, we hear a noise of deep, guttural discontent behind us. The cat is throwing up her breakfast. Red cups, I think. I bet the red cups are out now.
Samuel looks at me. Then he looks at the steaming pile of cat sick. Then he looks at me again. A grin spreads across his face. He wriggles free of my clutches and makes for the vomit at lightening speed. A new toy, he thinks. 'Catch me, Mum!' he thinks. There is poo all over his bottom. I miss those daily gingerbread lattes, I think. All resplendent with their cinnamon sprinkles.
I chase him with baby wipes in one hand, wildly swatting off what I can, while using the other hand to slow him down before he reaches the toxic heap. It's like trying to stop Roadrunner. His arms and legs are still scrambling forward determinedly but he's going nowhere. He isn't happy about it.
Eventually I manage to pin him down with my leg and clean him up. His little teeth gnash at my pyjama bottoms. Then I set to work on the snotty nose. He's even less happy about this.
I release him. He smiles a smile of instant forgiveness and crawls off to play with a story book. I turn my attention to the cat sick.
Oh, for a red cup in cashmere-mittened hands, I think.