The other day, I had read a post on Jen's blog. In it, she made mention of how her son had been sick and was glad that he was old enough to be able to barf in the toilet, and that all she needed to do was flush. I thought to myself that it must be great to be able to do that.
Little did I know that I would be thinking REALLY. HOW GOOD WOULD IT BE?
Eilidh was complaining of having a sore tummy at bed time. But me not being a true Campbell (in that I was merely grafted in to the tree, and therefore not a hypochondriac like both the patriarch of our family and his little offspring) I thought I was being wise to her ploy of delaying getting in to bed. (She's wily that way.) I dismissed her moans and said that her tummy was sore cos she was tired.
I know that sounds like a crappy excuse, but you say it with enough authority, kids believe it and you sound like you know what you're talking about.
So I packed her off to bed and all was quiet until about 10.30... All I'm going to say was that she had erupted... all over her bedspread (that was quite frankly, too expensive to be barfed on. I don't even like the kids using them at night.... they're there purely for decoration, and I'm not a fan of having them used to keep their little bodies warm at night. If they're cold at night, they should have thought about taking a hot water bottle to bed.)
So, I pulled her out of bed and sat her in the bath. While I cleaned the bedspread. The rigmarole of cleaning, scrubbing, holding hair back, holding my breath, all took place a couple of times throughout the night.
I know that I'm a mother, and that these times are part of the deal. But I don't like it. I want to strike when moments like this occur. I love my babies. I feel bad for them when they're not well. But I'd prefer clean illnesses.
Anyway. I think It was just a 24 hour bug, cos by the morning, she seemed OK. I kept her off school, just in case she went in and started blowing chunks in the dinner hall.
She was lying on the couch most of the day with her cosy blanket (one that could be barfed on without me having a meltdown), bossing Hannah around, and reminding me of how she was sick the night before.
But my minuscule amount of sympathy and bedside manner (that really goes against the grain - I mean, when we were ill when I was young, you had to get on with it. And as soon as you hadn't barfed in like 2 hours, you were packed off to school again. There was no sympathy. And we all learned to just get on with it. And so it's my duty to carry on this family tradition..) was running on low by 2 o'clock. And it had certainly run out when, lying regally on the couch and lifting her hand and gesturing toward the patio door, she uttered this statement
"Mummy... I think I will feel better if you pick me some flowers from the garden"
If I were a cartoon character, this is where my face would morph in to a donkey and the word ASS would appear above my long ears.
Anyway. After that, the telly was turned off and the blanket put away. I'm no mug.
And if you're all thinking that I'm heartless, you're probably right. I feel no shame.