A fucking injustice.
My last post described our joy at the inclusion of Joseph in his school’s trip. A trip where nobody had kicked up a fuss about him going. Nobody insisted on me having to drag myself along to stare at countless monkeys and apes that looked exactly the same. And nobody made any fuss about doing a risk assessment before he could attend. But he won’t be going. Why? Because he was royally screwed over by the sickness bug doing the rounds.
And the only person who is pissed off about it is me. I briefly mentioned to him this week he was going to the zoo but as per, he could not give two shits whether he goes or not. The only thing he would give two shits about is if the iPad smashed into a million tiny pieces (I have considered it). I did consider being incredibly selfish and not declaring to the school that he has been sick so we wouldn’t have to succumb to the obligatory forty eight hours away from the school environment. Who would know? Joseph would be unlikely to walk into school and say Good Morning I was sick yesterday. All over my new carpet. Mum was incredibly pissed off about it and she said to lie about being sick. And I did have the typical thought of someone of my generation, I am certain we never had a couple of days off, we were just sent back the following day. But then my conscience kicked in and thought it wouldn’t be fair on anyone else in the class if Joseph spread his germs (their carpets got ruined) and ultimately he (I) was responsible for the class attendance figure dropping.
Fucking typical, because he had 100% attendance last year and of all days he decides to spew for England, it is prior to this trip.
And as I start to write this, I’m actually on spew watch. I’m out of my comfort zone as I have not cleaned spew up for approximately six years. For the first eighteen months of Joseph’s life, I did nothing but clear spew and shit up. The shit continued a good few years after that but at least the spewing stopped. Anyone whose child has ever had reflux will understand the projectile vomit that greeted me daily and I constantly wondered whether I was destined to be scrubbing DNA from the floor for the rest of my life. God bless the wooden floor and leather sofa.
Joseph fell asleep at the side of me after not eating or drinking much since arriving home from school. Very much unlike him, but the outward signs led us to the conclusion that he was constipated. Fortunately for me, after recovering from the dead arm from the dead weight that was laid on me, the other half helped by carrying Joseph upstairs. When I say carry, you need to picture someone trying to hold a heavy sack of potatoes and it almost falling out of your arms. On arrival at his bed, said child chucks out a couple of belches followed by the most amount of spew I have ever set my eyes on. All over the new carpet that replaced the piss-stinking one we had previously.
Once I had recovered from the shock that the new fucking carpet was now a spew stinking carpet, I checked whether Joseph was ok and attempted to guide him into the bathroom. The poor lad was in shock. Half asleep and no idea what the contents of his stomach was doing on the carpet. That’s the new fucking carpet in case I hadn’t mentioned it.
Most children of Joseph’s age would have had countless sickness bugs but this is his first and even the most obvious task of putting your head over the toilet was difficult for us to get him to do. Why would you put your head over the toilet? He just wanted to go back to bed, but by this point my partner was cleaning the new fucking carpet and I had managed to clap my eyes on the new curtains that had been subjected to splashback. THE NEW FUCKING CURTAINS!
And because I have forgotten what it is like to clean spew up, I left the other half to continue whilst I guided Joseph downstairs as I couldn’t risk anymore deposits on the carpet. I wondered where I was going to sit him as I didn’t want anything on the sofa either (I am also thinking of Joseph and his welfare amidst my selfish attitude around all the newly ruined furnishings).
I showed Joseph the bowl which he promptly put back in the sink. After all, why would I be giving him a bowl that belongs in a sink? Why indeed.
I daren’t risk allowing him back upstairs in case I don’t hear him being sick (not because of the risk of further spew on the carpet) so he is on one end of the sofa and I am on the other side. I can hear every little sound he makes and I am the lightest sleeper I know. I’m working in the morning and I am wondering how long this night will actually last and how long before the germs work their way through the rest of the family. I have the subtle signs that my throat is starting to ache and the last thing I need is to be talking to God on the big white telephone.
I wanted to phone (or text) a friend and ask, What do I do? How ridiculous that I’m a Mum. A Mum who has cleaned more spew up than most, yet I suddenly don’t know what I’m meant to do in such a situation. Do I stay awake all night just watching him or do I rely on my light sleeping to alert me to any repeat occurrence?
And I am also wondering how I have managed to write an entire post about spew. And a new fucking carpet.