It’s been a difficult week here at Chez Mills.

I’ve long since suspected that Dexter was suffering with an ear infection. He was clutching at his ears last week and cocking his head unusually to one side. Google helpfully told us to look out for fever, discharge, and changes in mood - but despite hovering over him with the Veratemp, they never came.

In fact, what actually did emerge from my cherubic child was far more traumatic.

On Tuesday night I went out and Craig put little man to bed. When I finally stumbled through the door at midnight (I maintain someone slipped vodka in my J20) I was surprised to discover Dexter was still awake in his cot whimpering. His nose and eyes were streaming and he had a pesky little cough. I stood on Kleenex sentry all night and his room smelt like a football changing room in the morning; an eyewatering concoction of sweat, eucalyptus, and stale alcohol. His little pillow was soaking wet with tears and other less attractive fluids.

Yesterday was spent continually pinning him down and attempting to suck the snot from his nose (with the scariest contraption known to man). The screams were unbearable and I waited nervously for social services to turn up and inform me that the entire street had reported me. Kleenex failed us and had the effect of smearing the snot across his cheeks. I bathed him 3 times in the hope the steam would help clear out his sinuses and wash off the layers of caked phlegm.

This is only Dexter’s second cold and there’s no doubt we’re still prone to the odd over-reaction; yesterday Craig got minute by minute updates on Dex’s condition via text, and in the evening we exchanged worried looks and jumped on Google to look for advice. Needless to say Dexter found it quite amusing and clapped in delight that he was never more than 2ft away from his mummy or daddy. We might aswell have fed him grapes and fanned him like an egyptian prince!

Did I mention I have a snot phobia? No? Well I do. The whole saga has been truly painful.

Despite the fact that Craig and I seem to have evaded this cold thus far, we’ve had our own troubles this week too. On Monday I had an ultrasound to check for PCOS and was told my ovaries resembled a map of the underground; puckered with scars and cysts. As Dexter came to the appointment with us, Craig was left holding the baby in the waiting room. This meant I heard the news alone. On relaying the grisly verdict to Craig he asked a thousand questions I couldn’t answer so we sat in the car in the hospital car park battering our iPhone’s trying to find an explanation that didn’t require a medical degree.

The long and short of it seems to be that despite my haggard ovaries, I don’t have any other symptoms. I still ovulate (in fact I’ve been pregnant this year already), I don’t have a beard or gorilla arms, and I’ve probably had 5 spots in my life. Okay, although excessive hair growth and acne are only indicators of an underlying problem, it has helped cushion the blow somewhat.

The next step is a blood test to test my levels of testosterone and LH. I’ve submitted to so many blood tests this year already that I’m surprised that the lab at the Royal Berkshire Hospital hasn’t opened a new wing in my honour. I’d be very surprised if there’s anything untoward in my blood. I suspect I’ve already had this very test ten times already in 2013 and I never had serious phone call from my doctor that begins with “You might want to sit down Ms Chamberlain”.

Still - given we’ve been consumed by trying for another baby this year - it’s not great news. Craig’s little soldiers are going to have to mount a Lord of the Rings style attack in order to reach the Holy Grail. I’m considering slipping him zinc tablets in his morning orange juice and hiding the coffee. If you think this is harsh, that’s nothing compared to what I’m going to have to give up.

Quitting smoking is now a must (I’m actually attending a clinic this evening), there’ll be no more dirty J20s, and I’m going to have to lose some weight. The exercise bike will be dragged out of our shed, spiders evacuated, and I’ll be forced to get on the bloody thing and hump it into submission. Knowing me, I’ll probably go too far and end up looking like Jodie Marsh. Not only that, but given my mild OCD, I’ll be bankrupting us with homeopathic remedies, trawling Pinterest for low GI recipes, and distracting Craig from the task at hand with my incessant woe-is-me pillow talk.

Well there go - it’s definitely a week I’m excited to see the back of.