Harry looked green even after he'd been sick this afternoon. Skipping supper, he had a bath at the usual time and got ready for bed.
Suddenly he found new strength while watching CBeebies - all signs of being unwell have vanished and he began playing merry hell. I had to stop reading half way through the penultimate chapter of Prince Caspian (as I warned I would) and say goodnight.
Now he is dancing around in his bedroom, shaking the lights in the kitchen ceiling. He has broken the landing nightlight and is winding Emily up as well.
I've been up twice, read the riot act, then explained calmly that naughty behaviour is not acceptable. So far I have said goodnight three times. In return I've had Bear thrown at me, his photographs of Mummy have hit the deck and he's hurrumphed until I lost my temper. Only a child can recover from sickness so quickly.
He's angry. He's angry with me for telling him off, for playing the bad cop and for not giving him any tea or bedtime milk. All I can do is explain why and tell him I love him. "No you don't and anyway, I hate you, you silly man." I do and you don't.
What he won't be aware of for another hour (going on past experience) is that he's really angry because he doesn't have his mother, and he'll be sad that he discarded her photographs from his bedside chair. The only thing I don't know is whether he'll fall asleep before realising all of this or whether he'll come down the stairs, sobbing.