The last month has been action-packed.
As the eagle-eyed Instagram followers among you (or the seven that actually see my pictures, cheers IG) will know, I was away in Manchester for a weekend in May, and then after one night at home I went off to Paris on a childfree jolly to celebrate a friend’s birthday, where I ate food, drank wine and wasn’t woken up by small children. It was fab.
The week after that was half term, and boy, that was even more fun.
I had one night of sickness whilst in Manchester (as written about here), and then the following week the big one had a whole night of puking.
Less than a week later, after a lovely day out in the park with sunshine with only a moderate amount of screaming for ice cream, the small one vomited all over the floor; everywhere. It was unpleasant. I figured he’d caught whatever bug we’d both had, or maybe got a bit too much sun and excitement.
I thought that was it, over.
Until about 10pm that evening, when I was sat down watching TV, and suddenly felt decidedly unwell. Again.
Now don’t worry, this is not going to be a woe-is-me tale about how much vomit I managed to produce (much), or how little sleep I had (none) – although I know that would be a delight.
Instead, here is a comparison of how I cope, versus how my kids (in particular, the bigger of the two) cope with the whole puking business.
Her: In ridiculously high spirits, as if staying up late is a treat even when it comes at the cost of sitting with your head in a bucket.Me: Feels really, really miserable. It’s the worst thing ever, it tastes horrible, my throat is raw and it’s gone up my nose and in my hair. There is nothing grimmer.
Me: Looks at the clock, counting down the tiny number of hours until I’ll be woken up again IF I can get to sleep in the first place. Spends a lot of time wondering how on earth I’m going to function the next day.
Her: Wants to stay up all night and talk about babies.
Me: Wants to be left the hell alone.
Her: Wants to sleep in my bed with me.
Me: Has to get up the next day and do stuff, for example make sure two children don’t die.
Her: Doesn’t have to get up because she wouldn’t be allowed into preschool even if it was on, but gets up the next day as soon as the sun can be glimpsed for funsies.
Me: Can’t even drink water without feeling a bit pukey.
Her: Wants to eat cake for breakfast.
Me: Wants to curl up and die on the sofa.
Her: Wants to go to the park so she can go on the roundabout.
So there you have it. Being sick as a kid, basically the best thing ever.