Poorly J-Bone today, as he started the day with uncharacteristic langour, sliding into bed with us this morning and not so much as kicking off a sheet.
Now that he’s a bit older and able to tell us what is going on, he let us know that he had been sick in his bedroom. It was a tiny puddle of sick, but once J had a couple of drinks of water, he was able to deposit a lumescent trickle of green bile into the bathtub. He is such a polite invalid – all ‘please’ and ‘thanks’ and appreciative cuddles.
The thought that all is not well in the J-sphere triggers all kinds of panics within me: not about the puke itself – I’m quite comfortable with most of the substances that have been pushed out of his body over the last two years – but the idea that his body isn’t working properly.
And that relates to feelings of incapability that I have carried around with me since forever. Feelings that spiked jaggedly when the young one arrived in October 2012.
Once the normal pattern is disrupted, low, familiar voices pipe up in the back of my mind telling me that catastrophe is on the way, that I’ve no idea what to do, and general panic begins to jam the switchboards.
The chance of me escalating into a teary, anxious mess at the sight of his pale face makes the whole business a bit tricky. I’m so grateful that J is generally such a robust, healthy little lad. Though if it were normalised, I’m sure that a new coping mechanism would grow around it.
This vomity bout is extra frustrating as I actually have some plans for the little creature this weekend. A third birthday party thrown by a friend from J’s playgroup this afternoon (in a lovely big garden!) and then a trip back to Manchester tomorrow to see The Rockin’ Rhinos, an ‘animal band’ for under-sevens, and to take a long-delayed look at the redeveloped Whitworth Art Gallery.
Dr L is working seven days a week at the moment, which means J-Bone and myself are together pretty much all day every day. My paternal circuits can end up pretty fried and our extra-mural activities are often limited by our budget and my imagination. So this weekend is a chance for some quality excursion time.
All digits are crossed.
J has now got a couple of squares of toast inside him and informs me that he feels ‘brown’. All he is interested in at the moment is ‘some more toast’ and he isn’t interested in my explanation that we need to see whether his first round makes a reappearance first. Perhaps this longing is best described as ‘brown’.
If we do make it to MCR, I will report back next week.
Until then, it’s ‘Adios, amoebas!’