23
Feb
2010
Tales from the Poo Front
Stomach flu is impressive isn’t it? As if the achy pains and general sense of misery provided by your regular flu weren’t enough, adding nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea and then combining it with a constant state of hunger and thirst which can’t be satiated lest you want to spend another four hours retching into the toilet, is really a genius illness, in terms of maximising misery in a short period of time.
I’ve just had four days of caring for Monkey* with stomach flu, with me struck down with the same and shuffling between the bed, the toilet and caring for the little patient on day 4. I now listen to the dulcet tones of The Spaniard retching in to the toilet. Correct, child had only just recovered from bronchitis. Then he returned to daycare. Hence we have new illness after three days back.
However, on the upside, I feel like I have passed through a parent’s rite of passage. It is not with a small tinge of pride that I feel I can finally join in on the whole poo parents club, what with its infinite sharing of poo stories and sense of belonging and camaraderie. I’ve spent four days changing outfits and bedding with great frequency due not just to vomit but some spectacular poo incidents. I’ve earned some stripes. A few months ago dedicated reader and friend, Stephen, told me a poo story. It was a very good one — child had filled his daks and then used vehicular assistance — his bike — to spread poo to all corners of the house with utmost efficiency. I enjoyed the story but it left me feeling a bit…out. Like a draft dodger hearing the tales of war from the poo front. I had nothing of my own to come back with. It was awkward. Well, that has changed in the last 48 hours.
Yesterday we had no less than three baths and six changes of clothing. That’s if you don’t count mine. I had to completely change my own clothing at least three times. I would have showered if I had time but I was too busy with the wailing vomiter. So instead I swept hair up to a crusty ponytail. I pretty much couldn’t put him down, unless I wanted to hear some VERY loud crying (he has quite a voice on him, baritone, Kate says) which was awkward at times, especially when, feeling confident after two hours of isotonic drink without vomiting we tried some milk. Slowly, slowly catchie monkey he drank the milk. Calm and satisfaction followed. Then the flood was released. I tried to catch as much volume in my lap as I could to save the couch. It was relatively successful as I managed to shuffle crab like, sideways away from the crouch, with Monkey still in my arms, keeping the vomit in my lap and eventually dispersing it across the living room floor. The floor is not carpet so I think it was a good result.
