One overheated room, one five-year-old at a swimming lesson, two three-year-olds trying to get into pool to join said swimming lesson. Just another Monday afternoon chez nous. Last week after overheating the twins for half an hour whilst trying to hold them back from the water (without someone calling social services) we all went outside to the play park to blow off some steam.
Back in my youth our local play park, the ‘rec’, installed a new fangled roundabout that us kids lovingly named the sick machine. It was bright orange and could turn way faster than any run of the mill roundabout. The play park at our swimming pool has a strikingly similar roundabout.
On this particular visit the name became a reality. After some excited spinning(‘more, ‘faster’) No. 2 son complained his throat hurt and he wanted to get down; he waited just long enough for me to pick him up before he let rip and projectile vomited all over me. Down my shirt, on my jeans, in my hair, on his shorts, down his t-shirt and in his hair – I did say it was projectile.
Love is managing to say ‘there, there, it’s OK, you’re OK, Mummy’s here’ when in reality you want to scream a swear word followed by ‘eugh’, ‘yuk’, ‘gross’, ‘oh my god’.
I changed his clothes – mums of 3-year-olds always travel with a spare set – and then peeled off my sodden, stinking, only worn once shirt, covering my dignity with my cardigan which a) didn’t have buttons and b) didn’t fully meet in the middle (fashion you know). I then carried the poor chicken home, cursing roundabouts and flashing the motorists. Of course the other 2 wanted to stay at the park and their brother’s obvious distress wasn’t enough to convince them otherwise. Empathy is not children’s strong point.
Once home I ran a bath, plopped poorly boy in it and then discovered on removing my underwear that a warm puddle of lumpy stinking sick had collected in my non so ample cleavage. Cue Mummy’s turn to throw up. I hastily showered us both with way too much soap and thought that it was over. Wrong.
You see when you have twins everything is in twos and lo and behold 2 hours later when sleeping in her bed, his sister started making strange coughing sounds. She also kindly waited until I was holding her upright in her bed before she projectiled all over me. (yes I know it’s not a verb).
Mummy is covered again, so are the sheets, the pjs, the poor little half asleep princess who found herself in the shower whilst half asleep. Back to bed, clean and washed and bleurgh, it happened again but by this time the munchkins had got their timing sorted and tandem vomiting ensued. More dirty sheets, more dirty pjs, more upset and confusion, 2 sleepy children, 2 exhausted parents, a terrible smell of disinfectant and one fast asleep 5-year-old who didn’t stir throughout.
I am happy to report that by 7am the twins were fully recovered and eating their body weight in cornflakes. Their mother on the other hand was slightly nauseous, battle weary and dealing with an awful lot of washing.
Ah, the joys of parenthood.