For the past four days… FOUR days… I have been stuck indoors. Baby Z has the dreaded vomitting and diarrhoea bug. And it’s a viral little bastard. Grrrr do I hate that word. (Viral, not bastard). My heart sinks when a GP says “it’s viral”. It means I don’t have a magic wand to make my little man better and I need to let him get over it himself.
The poor thing is on Day 5 now of pooing for not only England but Scotland, Wales, Ireland and quite possibly the whole of the EU too. Our washing machine is threatening to collapse from being on all day and the poor lad is being dressed in every odd combination we can find in the drawers because of the leaky nappies.
Thank god the vomiting has stopped! That’s not bothered me too much though, I have to say. The last few days brought back memories of Baby Z’s reflux. I became a complete pro at catching projectile vomit. He had reflux for the first 7 months of his life and the first few weeks were a bit scary. He could throw up an entire feed and drench not only himself but me and the bedding. I got so used to it, some nights, I would just sleep in the dried up sick through exhaustion and probably looked like a tired drunken party goer. After all, getting 3 hours sleep in one stretch was my ultimate goal. If I got 4 hours in one night it would be considered absolutely amazing and I would declare myself “a new woman”. I probably looked like a zombie and probably sounded like one too. Mostly just muttering “sleeeepp….must sleeeeep”. Good times.
Hand me a muslin and I could probably enter a reflux-off with another equally skilled and exhausted mummy. We would be like cowboys at dawn, stumbling in front of each other but instead of cowboy boots there would be fluffy pink slippers. Instead of cowboy hats we would sport baby sick in our hair and instead of pistols we would have our muslins. On the ready…just listening for the little babes making that unmistakeable gurgling sound which guaranteed sick shortly after.
This week I’ve been doing all those things again. Well, not in a stand off, but in my own little existence within my house where I have been cooped up for FOUR days whilst Baby Z poops for the EU. It occurred to me at one point that if I can’t get tickets for the Olympics (how HARD is it to get tickets???) then maybe I could enter? As an amazing sick catcher? I would display all the commitment of an excellent cricket fielder. The types that throw themselves without any due care for themselves. You would see the concentration on my face as I leaped across the stadium with my muslin. I would bare my teeth and growl at the other rival mummies that have entered the same contest.
They would cower in my sick catching presence.
I would go on to take GOLD!!
I would cry during the anthem and clutch my trusty muslin to my chest. My skills had won a medal for my country.
But then I would find out that as soon as Baby Z is better I would need to hand my Gold medal in too because I wouldn’t have any sick to catch anymore. But that would be completely fine. I would trade all my muslins for that too.
See? Amazing alternative way to get into the Olympics.
Did I mention I haven’t been out for FOUR days?
I need to get some fresh air.