Why Can’t People Just Keep Their Bodily Fluids To Themselves?

Warning! If you are of a nervous and squeamish disposition, then do not read any further…I mean it…if you read on and then start complaining it will be your own fault and I will have no sympathy for you whatsoever…right then, don’t say I didn’t warn you because it states quite clearly WARNING, in red no less, and in BOLD letters at the start of this bilge story…seriously, some people never listen!

The great flu bug is truly upon us, or so it would seem. Like an unwelcome guest at a dinner party, the bug has been seen gate-crashing homes around the country, gorging itself on the excess buffet of human frailty, as well as behaving like a complete and utter arse.  Working it’s way around the room as if it were the host, it casts it’s glare at each partygoer, seeking to attack with it’s hazardous array of germ warfare. But metaphorical eyes avoid it’s presence and figurative contact is kept to a minimum, before it threatens to erupt at the onlookers of immune systems standing close by. Then and only then, is it escorted from the premises, via the methods of  coughs, sneezes and breathless wheezes (oh look, I made a rhyme)

“Shit, I feel bloated. I think I may have gorged too much on the excess buffet of human frailty”.

Today the great flu bug, turned up outside my door like an errant schoolkid who had spent the morning playing hooky. It asked the Spawn if he wanted to come out and play but Spawn refused. The great flu bug came in anyway and proceeded to cause all manner of trouble and strife and so now, the Lil man is ill.

 But fear not, faced with a sick child, I am unflappable, infallible even. I laugh raucously in the face of ill health, whilst simultaneously punching it in it’s abstract face and kicking it in it’s hypothetical testicles… unless of course, it’s me that’s ill and then I  just whinge and whine like a dying dog.

Take that, great flu bug!

 No, an ill child doesn’t faze me at all…not one tiny bit…except…except when it comes to vomit. Now I can deal with any form of fluid from any orifice, (we’re talking children here not adults. I’m not that depraved) but not vomit. All a vomiting child does, is make this adult want to vomit in turn.

I have spent many years working with children under and above the age of five, wiping dirty bottoms and cleaning up slimy nasal mucous, the colour and consistency of which you will never find anyplace else on this earth and you know what? I’m OK with that,

because:

Dirty bottoms + snotty noses = piece of piss.

Whereas:

Vomit + vomit = vomit.

A runny nose…see what the artist did there?

It all begun with the womb-fruit complaining of a headache.

Spawn: What if a Tarantula has laid eggs in my skull and they’re eating away at my brain?

Woman who couldn’t care less: Then they’ll go hungry.

Pain in the arse: But what if the babies have attached themselves to my central nervous system and then take control of my body’s movement?

Me trying not to punch myself in the womb: No such luck. Your spirit animal is the sloth. In fact Zombies have more get up and go then you.

SATAN: I’m going to die and you don’t even care!!

Me trying not to punch Spawn in the womb…whiny sissy man-boy: You’re not dying.

Brain Spider carrying boy bitch: BUT I AM!!!!

Me: Then can you hurry up, Captain America is on in 5 minutes.

Oh come on Spawn, Captain America wasn’t that bad.

And that’s when his skin took on an ashen tinge and his cheeks bulged with the abundance of the technicolour yawn held within.“BATHROOM!” Was all I could yell as he went scampering off in what I, foolishly thought was the direction of the bathroom. Ahh, the bathroom, a room in which not only contains a sink but also a toilet, anyone of which would have been an ideal place for one to fall upon one’s knees and pray to the white porcelain gods therein.

But of course, this was not to be, for that very simple and extremely basic, one worded command of “BATHROOM,” had somehow become lost in translation. And so what my Spawn heard instead was this:

“If you are going to be sick, then can you make sure to BY-PASS the BATHROOM  and feel absolutely free to empty the contents of your stomach directly at the center of your doorway. Oh and whilst you’re at it, why not splash a bit of it upon the front of the door itself, remembering also to apply a liberal dash behind said door. And let’s not forget to splatter the bottom of your homework desk too, no point in leaving anything out”.

 I can totally see how he could misinterpret that word.

Yes, I’m well aware that rainbow coloured puke does NOT make the subject matter any more palatable.

It took me ten minutes of deep breathing, two cigarettes, a bag to hyperventilate in and a very large towel to clean up the mess, whilst all the while, dry heaving and screaming “OH MY GOD, I TOUCHED IT!”

After the clean up operation, all was calm and still, if not a little bit smelly…until Spawn decided to throw up once again…though I’m not quite sure if ‘decided’ is the correct word to use. I mean I’m pretty sure that had he any say in the matter, he would have chosen to keep the lining of his stomach, still actually lining his stomach.

The mess this second time around was immense. The only possible way that I could describe what might have happened, is that Spawn had stood in the middle of his room, turning at 180 degrees like a vomit spewing sprinkler system, hitting everything within reach. He had then decided to tell me all about this, by walking to my bedroom whilst trailing the remains of his poorly digested supper all the way down the hallway.

“DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHERE THE BATHROOM IS?” Was all I could say…hysterically.

Ten minutes of deep breathing, three cigarettes followed by a pep talk, (“come on Lily, you can do this), accompanied by lots of heavy duty retching and some industrial strength dry heaving later and I was ready to commence with clean up operation number two. The only problem now was that I had retched so much, that I actually ended up puking alongside his puke and then puked up again at the thought of cleaning up two sets of puke.

By the end of it all, I was completely traumatised and absolutely shattered. I had to go and lie down.

When the morning came, the only reminder of the night before was a slight aroma of Dettol…and of course vomit. Nothing but razing the house to the ground and rebuilding it from scratch, was ever going to get rid of that shit.

As I walked across the hallway to go and check on my poor sick baby, I stepped on something hard and solid. Kneeling down to get a better look, I poked at the object with my finger hoping to remove it but it was stuck fast to the carpet. Leaning forward, I sniffed gently at the matter and realised all too late, that what I was actually pressing my nose up against, was the remains of some dried up, stale vomit.

No points for guessing what happened next.

~Lily