It's the Easter school holidays, again. Oh God, really? Then that means there are two weeks of constant whinging, whining, crying, screaming, tantrums and door slamming to look forward to - and that's just me! Oh God, please just kill me now.
On top of two whole weeks of school holidays, Sarah has chickenpox and Bart has had the most amazingly explosive diarrhoea for days, leaving his arse raw and very sore. Obviously he has no concept of REAL pain, you know, like the pain of trying to push a baby the size of a Brontasaurus from somewhere a Brontasaurus was never realistically going to emerge without it smarting a little. Saur Us? Pah! Tell me about it. If only I'd been willing to countenance a sore arse more often, my baby Brontasaurus wouldn't have been born in the first place!
Sarah has been comparatively lucky by only having two pox spots, but she has suffered terribly with a shocking temperature and stomach and headaches that won't be beaten with pain relief. Like most children I'm sure, I'm now having to endure days upon days of having her clinging like a limpet to any available limb, whilst still trying to complete the most mundane of tasks. Imagine having a pox-ridden child's arms wrapped around your middle, cuddling you from behind, whilst you're trying to clean foul smelling mustard arse gravy from a baby that would really rather you wouldn't! Oh, the joy...
The other day was a complete nightmare: Bart was ravenous and Sarah wasn't. I cooked a meal (!) and Bart couldn't get it down fast enough. Sarah on the other hand was feeling nauseous and scarpered upstairs, believing she was to be sick, and insisting I go with her to hold her hair and try very hard not to throw up on the back of her neck. Whilst upstairs with Sarah, morphing into a fetching shade of Kermit Green myself, Bart is unleashing hell downstairs because he's strapped into a highchair and unable to reach his food, which is just outside his reach. So down I run, leaving Sarah perched over the toilet bowl promising not to be sick for 2 minutes, so that I can give Bart his dinner. Upon pushing his plate towards him, Bart plunges both hands into his mashed potatoes and gravy and then releases them suddenly catapulting peas, carrots and sweetcorn everywhere. You can imagine my delight. I think I said something along the lines of "Oh heavens above my little darling, what on earth did you do that for?" Now I was committed to feeding him his dinner (because he couldn't be trusted not to redecorate the kitchen in my absence), between manic strides upstairs to check on Sarah, who was heaving and retching away, when I told her quite clearly not to until I got back! Kids!
Once Sarah's stomach had settled without actually being sick, and Bart had finished what was left of his meal from between his fingers, in sauntered Keith asking about my day. Luckily I didn't have a heavy bottomed saucepan or a sharp implement in my hands at the time, but the steam from my ears and a look of reassurance that only I can give [that one's for you Olga], told him all that he needed to know, and he promptly put the kettle on.
Sarah's getting better every day and Bart's arse is less scarlett, but the two are a combustible mix when together for long periods of time. They love each other dearly, but two weeks of their squabbling is going to send me around the bend. Wish them luck...
This article has been sponsored by Hardys Shiraz Cabernet, on your table ... for not very long!
This article has been sponsored by Hardys Shiraz Cabernet, on your table ... for not very long!
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