A Virus has worked its way round our household this week. Not an electronic virus, but the raging sore throat, swollen glands and pounding headache. There is nothing worse than when illness takes control of a house full of small children and over-tired parents. In fact, it throws the whole weekly schedule into disarray. The washing baskets overflow, meals decline into basic menus and the television finds itself permanently on.
Our four-year-old son was the first to be hit but unlike most men, his father included, he took the illness head on and refused to be beaten by it. He continued to speed around on his black motorbike half dressed, sword his siblings at every opportunity, and took advantage of the situation with regular requests for chocolate. It then struck the baby (now 18-months-old but still referred to as The Baby). It was the usual case of a small child who one minute is splashing merrily in the bath, to rapidly deteriorating into a small whimpering ball with a high temperature and regular bouts of vomiting. I spent Sunday night, rocking him, pacing up and down, syringing his little mouth with Calpol and changing both his and our sheets at some unearthly time in the morning. As the dreaded 6.30am alarm call came from our son requesting his breakfast, I had barely slept. Then there came loud screams from my daughter’s room, prompting a mad dash down the corridor to find her sobbing with a mouth full of red roar bulbous tonsils. The rest of the day was spent administering copious amounts of medicine, amongst a household full of crying children, all competing to curl up on their Mummy’s knee.
By 3pm, it struck the mother but as usual we battle on, with supper to cook, washing to hang on the line and phone calls to make. The menu was swiftly changed to a rather processed looking sausage roll, a slice of cheese and a sad looking stem of broccoli. I was declining fast, so bathtime was cancelled (something that only happens in a case of emergency), and all three children were in bed by 5.45pm. I collapsed on the sofa, gargling asprin and furiously popping Nurofen declaring that I will not be beaten by this. It is simply out of the question for the mother to be ill. The night was spent administering more Calpol, singing lullabies and calming down whimpering children. The lack of sleep began to play with my mind prompting to me to wonder whether one can actually die of a sore throat. We awoke in a state of chaos greeted by sticky medicine spoons and sea of dirty tissues. My husband was away this week so he had been spared all this. As I relayed the events of the night to him, he replied, “I hope I don’t get it.” And I must admit, so do I. Otherwise he will undoubtedly demand I call 999 and admit himself to hospital for emergency treatment.
