Lushnessblog has been trapped indoors now for 24 hours and 35 mins. LB did try to escape, but just as one child was emerging from the initial strike of the vomit comet, and LB tried to leave the house with her to sneak to Tesco Express before she starved to death, the school rang to say GET HERE QUICK. LB did. With a new family sick bucket that she managed to buy from the hardware store on the way. Oh, happy purchase.
It is not that LB is bitter about being kept indoors at the beck and call of the tiny army of despots that she herself has created. It is simply that LB has a small (ok, large, LB lied) aversion to vomit. Admittedly no-one loves the stuff (excluding certain perverts), but LB loathes it.
When the youngest of the two LB daughters was first sick last night, LB was sans husband. Mr LB is typically gung-ho re: vomit, and merrily trudges into the bedroom of the afflicted child, happy to cradle them and hold their hair as they chunder, marching out in a forthright manner with the slopping bucket to chuck it down the bog with a flush and a jaunty swill of bleach. LB however, oh bad LB, head hung in shame, tries to hide. LB holds her breath, averts her eyes, swallows to control own self’s gag reflex, and mutters soothing lies such as “Oooooh-kaaaay, Mummy’s here, Mummy will make it better, get it all up darling, it’s ooooooh-kaaaaay”. Whilst secretly wanting to shriek like a banshee running backwards from the room, pelting the off-spring with antibacterial wipes and spraying disinfectant from one of those backpacks-with-hose attachments, the kind that exterminators wear, straight into their faces. If Mr LB is present, then LB scurries about gathering bleach and Dettox and loading the washing machine and generally avoiding the area of conflict, miraculously re-appearing just as the actual puking is complete and the puker is back in bed.
And so it is with still-shocked digits that LB types these words. For last night LB was not only alone and next to a puking child, but stood next to the child in the bathroom, which was projectile-vomited upon in a scene worthy of an 18 certification. The floor was awash, LB was splattered up to the knees, LB had essentially gone paddling, only not in cooling blissful sea water at a tropical location, but in warm stinking spew in her own bathroom. Both children were weeping, LB was close, and the walls/roll top bath feet/sink/toilet and smallest off-spring were sporting a new pebble-dashed effect. At which point, eldest child recovered long enough from the shock to mutter that “I see Amelie had strawberries for her lunch. Why didn’t I?”
It is safe to say that, similar to when they’ve all been home for the weekend and the house is a state by Monday, LB did not know where to start. LB simply looked around in horror, squelching with each movement and taking in the damage in slo-mo. The towels… the fluffy-as-a-cloud John Lewis bathmat… the reclaimed chest of drawers upon which the basin sits… LB’s own toes FFS … And once the clean-up, which frankly required professionals with power hoses, or even the straight demolition of the house and a sympathetic re-build (LB assumes her buildings & contents offers no cover in the case of Vomit Comet Strike) was complete, and both children on their way to bed, Mr LB strolled back in the doorway.
Best of all, despite the Herculean efforts of LB as nurse, mother, cleaner, carer and wife, all gratitude from the small children was directed solely at Mr LB, who the children looked at as in the manner that one expects those poor girls who had been kidnapped for 20-plus years looked at the sun the first time they saw it again. Huh.
So, now it is simply the waiting game. Who will succumb next? LB or Mr LB? Seeing as LB has positively bathed in puke for the past 24 hours, my money is on the former. Worryingly the downstairs loo is not currently in working order, but LB will be willing to take things to fisticuffs in order to bagsy the upstairs one should the Vom Com go for a simultaneous marital strike. If either LB or her spouse is going to be in for shitting their pants, a side-effect already demonstrated by one small member of the household due to the vicious nature of the current germ-infestation, then it ain’t gonna be she.