So after the Never-Ending Snow Day, EldestGirl’s school was open again, and there was much rejoicing. Until, at 3.30 a.m., her dulcet tones came drifting down the landing. “I’ve been sick.”
She was indeed sick. Very, very sick. She spattered every surface available. And so commenced another 48 hours with no school. I was very kind to her whilst she was unwell. I mopped her forehead, put her in front of endless Netflix, read her stories, washed vomit out of her hair
ten times and gave her lots of cuddles. She slowly regained her strength and, after what had felt like an unplanned and irritatingly cold and miserable half-term, during which we had done nothing other than clean up bodily fluids, back off to school she finally, finally wobbled.
A week of normal school went by, and again, there was much rejoicing. I was a bit tired, recovering from nursing the invalid, and I may have used up an entire month’s worth of empathy in one fell swoop. I will admit that. Empathy is not my natural state. I do sarcasm much better.
On Sunday it started bastarding snowing again. “Fuck this,” I said to TheBloke (TM). “If the school’s closed tomorrow, she’s going in anyway. I don’t care if it’s sodding Narnia out there. I’m just going to lob her over the fence and leg it. Maybe she’ll make friends with a faun, or bring us back some Turkish Delight.”
“You don’t like Turkish Delight,” said TheBloke (TM).
“Shut up,” I said, thus winning the argument.
Thankfully the school was open as normal, and the snow, whilst still annoying, was passable (though I did nearly land on my arse twice).
But at 6.30 a.m. this morning, I heard her on the landing, saying something to TheBloke (TM). I heard him tell her to go to the bathroom.
“What did she say?” I asked, thick and groggy with sleep.
“She said she feels sick again,” he replied.
Now – honestly, honestly I have no recollection of saying what I said next, and I am certainly not proud of it. I was four-fifths asleep and can’t even be sure I did actually say this, although to be very honest, it absolutely does sound like something I might say.
Apparently, upon hearing of my beautiful, clever eldest child’s impending vomit, my exact words to TheBloke (TM) at 6.31 a.m. this morning were, “Tell her to fuck off.”
Thankfully she didn’t hear me, and TheBloke (TM) declined to relay the message. And thankfully also, I suspect boredom rather than genuine illness, as 30 minutes later, a bowl of porridge larger than her head was polished off.
“Mummy,” said EldestGirl, a healthy bloom rising to her cheeks.
“Yes darling,” I replied.
“Can I give you some feedback about this porridge?” She waited expectantly.
“It’s nice – but it’s a bit plain. Maybe you could consider adding some honey or some cinnamon?”
And that, dear reader, is why I lobbed her over the playground wall this morning and ran before she could vomit on me or get snowed out.