I’m sure you’ve all been hanging onto your seats waiting for just such a delightful blog as this. Well I cannot imagine or bear the thought of disappointing or denying you, so here we go.
We have survived the first sickness bug.
I have been dreading the Voms ever since we marched Blake through the door at Nursery on a mild October morning, sat him on the floor and then rocked quietly in the corner of the corridor while he howled. Everyone, every last single solitary person knows that the first Winter of Nursery is awash with sickness. Your child gets every single sodding bug going as they toddle round their assigned room, licking the floor and sneezing into each others mouths. You claw and crawl your way into March dazed and confused, having survived a raft of fevers, infant coughs and more often than not, sickness bugs. Not to mention The Pox.
Except somehow we survived two Winters at Nursery without a sickness bug. This is probably a lucky break from having found a lovely small Nursery for Blake with only a handful of children trading germs. And so I knew in my waters that we wouldn’t manage a third lucky Winter.
I’d have preferred the chosen time for said stomach bug to not have been Boxing Day, but having spent that morning with James at A&E the day had already gone off piste.
I had quite the mental block on the Voms. I am not good with the Voms. If James or I show the slightest sign of being sicky I go all out Dictator on the house, setting up a quarantine zone in the spare room with enough Sprite, bowls and rehydration sachets to see us through a clear week, all the while shrieking DON’T BREATHE ON EACH OTHER GET INTO SOLITARY!!! And so I was terrified about how I would cope with a small, puking child. Because grown adults can generally take themselves off to their own little pit of misery and be sick discreetly and fairly neatly and be done with it. Under 4s, I suspected, would not be quite so sophisticated in their approach.
I will say now, we were lucky. This time, it was not Noro, although that will no doubt come. This time was a 6 hour, once every 45 minutes, batch of the Voms and Blake quickly grasped the concept that one ideally aims for the bowl and not the pillow. And the universally recognised truth of parenthood hit me smack in the face again – when it is your own child, the laws of logic and hygiene go out of the window, along with your normal adult reaction. When it is your child, you put all else to one side and knuckle down and find that frankly, you care about nothing but them being alright. Oh well done me, I thought, as I calmly hauled Blake up into a sitting position at 4am, held a bowl in front of him and rubbed his back. You are so much calmer than expected. You are normally such a total pillock, this is quite unexpected. You must brush that sick out of your hair later, but never mind. There we go, he’s done, lets wipe his little face and kiss his forehead and settle him back down.
Don’t get me wrong, I was really worried, I know the risks of a little one becoming dehydrated and I by no account mean to belittle something that can be serious and scary. But at the same time – if you can’t raise an eyebrow at this funny old game of parenting, and grin and call a Vom a Vom, what can you do? We press on. It’s not all toy trains and whole milk and mini Boden.
So in a rare show of maturity *snorts* I found a quiet place of calm inside myself and a bit of grit and determination that saw me climb into bed with my child and watch over him through the night until he was through the worst. At which point I reverted to normal and dragged my weary limbs around the house alternately moaning quietly and snarling at anyone over 3 who came too close.
So there we have it. Another parenting first down. Bosh.
dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused