I hear Youngest Child rise in the night and head for the bathroom. There’s retching and whimpering so I bolt out of bed but she’s locked in.
I HEAR Youngest Child rise in the night and head for the bathroom. There’s retching and whimpering so I bolt out of bed but she’s locked in.
“Can you open the door sweetie?”
“No! Retch, splatter.”
“It’s OK. You’re OK.”
More retching. More splattering. It’s not sounding good.
There’s a break in the barfing. She slides back the lock and stands enamel-faced, surrounded by a Jackson Pollock of vomit.
“Aw. Poor baby. It’s all right.”
“Sorry mummy. I couldn’t get to the toilet.”
Eh? There are SIM cards bigger than our bathroom – it’s so bijou the tub half-fills the doorway and it’s two steps to the porcelain altar. How could she miss?
“Doesn’t matter. Poor you.”
“No, poor you, mummy. You’re going to have to clear it up,” she says, and departs.
I strike while the vom’s hot. Nothing’s harder to shift than dried chunkpuddles. It’s the work of a moment. Snot, blood, shit – I’ve never met a body fluid I can’t master.
But as I start swabbing, la-la-la-ing loudly, something’s wrong. I heave. I gag. I barf. Are my superpowers failing? Will I ever pick gunge off the kitchen bin again, fearlessly shove my hand down the sofa back, enter the boys’ rooms? What will become of us?
Youngest reappears.
“Hmm. You’ve got it too.”
Of course! I feel sick with relief, and succumb, as Youngest Child gently holds back my hair.