I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m not a natural carer. My times of wiping toddler bums are behind me and now I can share the odd drinky and a smutty snigger with my boys, I’m much happier.
I was less happy, therefore, when after spending the entire day on Saturday at the Vans Warped Tour at the Ally Pally, the Prof arrived home in the early hours, cracked my door open and croaked ‘I’m home’ in a very bunged-up manner. Of course, spending a whole day moshing (or whatever it is) and yelling along to various bands without drinking or eating much was never going to help his already-ingrained medium to bad cold, but Sunday dawned and it was obvious this was something more. Coughing gave way to the sound of puking, he was freezing cold/boiling hot/freezing cold and the poor cat eventually gave up her place at the end of the bed when she fell off about three times due to the severity of his hacking cough.
His brother decided the only thing for it was to wear his balaclava in the house at all times, giving the postman a bit of a shock when he rang the doorbell with a special delivery too.
I’m not too bad at the medical side (although I have managed to lose the thermometer – I really must clear up my desk), and I’ve been duly monitoring how much paracetamol are in various cold and flu medicines, and dispensing mugs of hot blackcurrant, teaspoons of cough medicine and lots and lots of hugs.
When I got a text from the Dude, who was at school, saying ‘I really don’t feel well’, (there’s something scientific right there: balaclavas don’t work as germ prevention – possibly why you can’t get them on prescription) things went from bad to worse, and I’ve now got two of them at home, coughing, retching, sweating and generally needing looking after. I swear as soon as my bum hits the sofa, there’s a feeble ‘muuuuuuum’ from upstairs because someone needs water/medicine/more hugs. If I carry on at this rate my entire store of hugs will be depleted, and THEN what will I do?
I’ve learned, too, that it’s unbearably sad when your sole skill becomes defunct: nobody’s eaten anything except tiny bits of toast with honey, and my shopping and cooking services haven’t been required. It’s heartbreaking, dear reader. I want my plague of locusts back, and I want them NOW!
Ninja, disgusted with all this malaise in the house, has made things twice as bad, once by attacking one of my patients, forcing him to spill his hot orange all over his clean bedlinen, and another time by stealthily parking herself on the top stair, so that in a vain attempt not to squash her I managed to drop a basket of washing back down the stairs and twist my ankle trying not to follow it.
Still, the boy managed to tweet ‘I love my Mum’, which was nice, and I’ve put the shoulder of pork I was going to surprise them with into the freezer (they’re desperate for me to make the lovely pulled pork sandwiches that we had round my sis in law’s on bonfire night). Maybe next weekend eh? That’s if I don’t come down with it first… *sniff*