*What goes down, must come up*


I’m thinking of renaming the house Just Vomit.

Lori has had a sickness bug for the third time in six weeks.

Being a generous child, she thoughtfully shared her germs with Akasha, and the two of them went into competition mode yesterday evening to see who could fill a bowl most often with bodily fluids, between the hours of 11pm and 6.30am.

As an impartial judge, I really couldn’t call it.

I could smell it. I almost wore it. But when push came to shove, I had to admit to it being a tie.

Discontented at their lack of trophy, they spent the day threatening me with runny bottoms and lolling around on the sofa. The little one finally broke. I caught her attempting ballet moves and impersonating opera. I think it was the retention of the scrambled egg that did it. The older one did an impressive ‘swirling of the scrambled egg around the plate’ then asked to be excused.

I ambushed them with rehydration salts disguised as strawberry juice and just plain water. I defeated the headache, and the runny bottom only once got the better of me.

I’m not surprised by my success. After all, I’ve dealt with this very same issue three times in the last six weeks.

And that’s not including all the experience on my résumé.

Indeed, were I more of a novice, I could, perhaps, by now, be starting to panic about the likeliness of our household harbouring the norovirus.

But we’ve been there. Disinfected the t-shirt. Pushed back the nails with one of those wooden manicure sticks and let soap do its worst. We’ve boil washed the teddies and burned the mattresses – no, sorry, that was scabies. We’ve told the children not to kiss. Not to drink from the same bottle/cup/glass/decanter. Not to eat from the same fork. We’ve shaved heads – no, damn it, that was head lice. We’ve told them not to drink out of the toilet ever again – no, I’m confused, that was a dare (whose consequences could only be remedied with antibiotics).
We informed them: after attending the W.C. they should flush, spray the loo with disinfectant, scrub their hands enthusiastically with soap and a scouring pad, brush their teeth, dry their hands and face, throw away the towel, spray the flusher, spray the sink, spray the whole bathroom, open the window so they can once again breath, and just to be on the safe side, give themselves a full body rub down with that lovely I-kill-99.99999999%-of-germs blue liquid.

The symptoms settled and I thought finally, the neighbours will no longer threaten to report me for my new daily ritualistic bonfire. I can go back to using the barbecue to cook meat. And my pharmacist will stop asking me if I have an issue with disinfectant.

Then those geniuses decided to share a sandwich…

My ears rang to the tune, “But you never said, don’t share a sandwich…”

And my answer to that ladies and gents?

Vodka.