Why is it that when you have a feeling that they are really really telling you the truth you ignore them? Especially when you have something important to do like promising a friend you’ll all go to London for the day?
So despite the fact that The Boy says, Mummy my head hurts I bundle him in the car drive for two hours and then force him to walk miles all round town only to land up at our destination: The Natural History Museum with a miserable child plus a roaring temperature and still I pretend to myself and everyone else that everything A OK only to have to back track rapidly and high tail it all the way back to Suffolk when said Boy virtually collapses in my arms. Bad Mummy.
So after that one would think I would not do the same thing again in a hurry but no less than 10 days later when The Boy says: “Mummy my tummy hurts”, I ignore it as I have to take Bog Boy to a party and we’ve been invited out for lunch and then there is the school Bonfire Party/Halloween Fest and well, blooming heck it’s all organized and it would be way too much hassle not to do everything.
Actually the Boy seems fine and downs two Coca Colas at lunch much to my chagrin but hey it’s not my place to gainstay him when his hosts are so generous. It’s not as if it happens all the time. The lunch passes fine although I note The Boy is not as hungry as he normally is.
At the Bonfire Party appetites have returned and he wolfs down a beef burger and some rather dodgy tomato soup…I am not fond of that tomato soup and you’ll find out why in a moment.
Well safely at home a full on exhausting day behind us and The Boy and his little brother are fast asleep in bed. A little too self-satisfied turn over to drift off to sleep only to be woken what seem moment later by a plaintive wail: Mummy I’m going to be sick…!!!!
I don’t bother with the "Hold on Darling, Mummy’s coming!" by the sound of his panic stricken voice I know it’s far too late. Thinking quickly in the fog of sleep I holler: "Run Boy! Run! Run to the bathroom and for heaven’s sake don’t be …"
Too late I hear the first up chuck and I know as I thunder down the stairs from my attic hideaway that it’s going to be a messy interlude.
In my haste I have forgotten to turn the landing light on and as I dart across to follow The Boy to the bathroom I step in it warm and squidgy and seeping between my toes. I pause momentarily do I continue knowing that I will be leaving behind potato print footsteps all along the cream carpet down the corridor but am there to look after my son or do I stop to clean my foot and just yell instructions to him not to throw up in the basin? As these thoughts flit across my befuddled brain I hear another huey and my mind is made up no time to worry about feet, I’ll just have to hop. Then I hear more and I wonder just how much food has he eaten and when will it ever stop? It’s not until later after reassuring The Boy that all is Ok and that Mummy still loves him that I start to assess the damage.
Switching on the lights the full horror is laid before me. My Boy has managed to leave multi textured ruddy brown splodges about two and a half feet in diameter on not one but two Persian Rugs and as I retrace our footsteps I note that the cream carpet along the corridor doesn’t look nearly as nice as it did only a few hours before.
I have a funny feeling this is what they call Schadenfreude and make a mental note to listen to my children when they say they aren’t feeling too good…