It’s been a dog’s breakfast at the Lionheart residence since approximately midnight on Friday. The universe has napalmed the crap out of our family. Quite literally.
The weapon of mass destruction? Gastroenteritis.
And you know what’s cruel (and listen up here, because this is a life lesson, y’all): The world has REFUSED to stop turning since we’ve all taken so ill. This is what is popularly referred to as an ‘inconvenient truth’.
When you’re a kid, and your tummy hurts, quick-as-a-wink Mom picks you up from sick bay at school, and has you cocooned in your favourite blankie at home, a Disney movie on in the background while she lovingly grates you an apple.
Except now I AM the mommy. (And I’m still waiting for my frigging bowl of grated apple!)
In the interests of filling the gaps these last few days I haven’t been blogging:
My husband was the first casualty of war, and frankly deserves a Purple Heart and a couple of Vietnamese hookers for his heroics these last few days.
On Saturday, despite being up since 4am and christening several racetracks, petrol station restrooms, and practically taking out timeshare in the bogs of the bar where he was competing in a darts tournament – my husband had no alternative but to soldier on and meet his commitments for the day.
Still, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that by Saturday afternoon, on the homefront, the Lionheart had also been struck down. On the plus side, after eight loads of washing, and running out of PJs and pillow slips, I’ve now managed to teach Travis a new trick: how to vomit into a plastic ice-cream tub.
By Monday, we were (ahem) up shit creek without a paddle. We had no choice but to pack the Lionheart off to school, as his nanny (as if she has some kind of crystal ball or something) had asked for the day off, and both my husband and I were working full-day at clients.
By noon, my husband had to excuse himself from work to fetch a very miserable Travis from school. And just on a side-note here: in a male-dominated work environment, you lose MAJOR dick-swinging-in-the-boardroom points if you have to take the afternoon off to babysit your sick child.
If you’ve met my other half, you’ll know he’s Camel man incarnate. He’ll change your car’s oil. He’ll install your Dstv. He’ll takes his rump steaks SERIOUSLY.
But when someone within six feet of him blows chunks, that’s it. He has to bolt from the room before he follows suit! Travis chose Monday afternoon to forever cure this apparent chink in his father’s armour, and turned his digestive system into a musical fountain of diarrhoea and bile.
Husband phones me at 6pm, after he’s put Travis in the bathtub for the fifth time, to wash the puke out of his hair, as he doesn't know the vomit-in-the-ice-cream-tub trick yet. Anyway, I start freaking out! I’m seeing emergency rooms, needles, intravenous drips… (Keep in mind I’ve been at my client’s office in Sandton this whole time, and am scheduled to be editing copy there until the magazine goes to print at 10pm that night.)
By 7pm I’ve managed to slink out early, and race home. I’m hoping some Metro cop will have the balls to pull me over to, so that I can point to my 32-week-pregnant belly and go: “Where the @#%$; do you THINK I am rushing to in such a hurry?”
The Lionheart is looking rather chipper after I screech into the driveway, so we decide not to take him to hospital. We settle in for night three of zero sleep, as Travis battles stomach cramps and dehydration. Thankfully, by now my husband is on the mend.
But the universe is not done with us. Oh no.
Nursing bleary eyes and bruised careers, Wednesday morning dawns and… ta-dah… now I’ve caught the gastro! And I've just booked a brand-new client for the day, who I'd like to impress. And I'm not allowed to take any meds. And we’d eaten Durban curry the night before. That is all.
Regular blogging, hopefully on a non-toilet related topic, should resume in the next day or two.