It’s been a busy week for our washing machine. I was, somewhat optimistically, looking forward to this week – the Boy’s birthday, Halloween looming, the last week before British “Summer” Time ends, children frolicking in crunchy fallen leaves , seasons of mists etc.
Season of germs more like.
The Boy spent his first night as a two year old covered in vomit (his own, I should clarify) – as did I (ditto his own), and then it became a waiting game to see who would fall next. I was the lucky winner, my prize a horrible couple of days sweating and shivering and retching (uuuugh), and on-going lingering tummy upset. The Boy’s birthday party (actually, not so much a party as a cake-fest) having been postponed twice fell right in the midst of my personal plague, so I struggled up, and breathed dog-breath all over the visiting mummies who were kind enough to pretend not to notice.
The waiting game continues – the Girl or the Man?* – and in the meantime, we (I) are (am) trying to work my way through the Everest of laundry which bred during my infirmity. It’s never ending (relentless, almost...) but on the plus side, the constant hum of the machine is quite soothing, and Ariel non-bio is for once covering the usual smell of damp – and the new smell of vom - in the house.
But back to the Boy’s birthday. One of the highlights of the day was watching his face light up (almost literally at one point, when he leaned a bit too close to the candles for my liking) when his birthday cake was produced. Aw, bless. It took a couple of attempts before he got the whole blowing thing, but he did well. The low-light – apart from hosing regurgitated blackcurrants off duvets and pillows - was watching helplessly as the neighbourhood cats tortured a squirrel in our back garden. Squirrels are really stupid, and there’s definitely an argument in favour of them being eaten alive, but I’d rather it didn’t happen when I’m trying to persuade the Boy to eat his birthday pancakes (made with blackcurrant jam...).
The other highlight came about, strangely enough, right in the middle of the vom-fest. Once bedding had been stripped and the Boy cleaned up – for the third time – I took him (and a bucket) into bed with me. This was the second night in his life when we've shared a bed – the only other time being his first night home from hospital, aged 3 days. So there was much excitement and chatter from him (which is precisely why it’s a rare-to-never event); this (very) gradually died down, and eventually we were just lying there – trying to sleep (or so I thought). His breathing got deeper and deeper , and just when I thought he was asleep, and I might be able to extricate my arm from his, he leant over, crawled onto my chest, and said – “sowwee mummy”, before putting his head down and kissing me.
The other highlight came about, strangely enough, right in the middle of the vom-fest. Once bedding had been stripped and the Boy cleaned up – for the third time – I took him (and a bucket) into bed with me. This was the second night in his life when we've shared a bed – the only other time being his first night home from hospital, aged 3 days. So there was much excitement and chatter from him (which is precisely why it’s a rare-to-never event); this (very) gradually died down, and eventually we were just lying there – trying to sleep (or so I thought). His breathing got deeper and deeper , and just when I thought he was asleep, and I might be able to extricate my arm from his, he leant over, crawled onto my chest, and said – “sowwee mummy”, before putting his head down and kissing me.
I’d like to say that he then fell asleep, but no, he got a new burst of life, jumped up on me, and started to demand books and juice. The moment passed, but it was a very lovely, special moment.
He’s still not getting blackcurrant jam ever again tho’.
*and the prize goes to... the Girl, who is as good-natured about a stomach bug as she is about everything else. Bless.
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