Cue Gastro

I am about to blatantly abuse my blog. There, I said it. Let there be absolutely no pretences.

I am a walking wail waiting to happen...my mind is a seething mess of grief and anger. I have been going around since yesterday, continuously stopping the wall of shuddering sorrow that builds behind my eyes. It is going to come out, and it will be huge. And ugly. But for now, I cannot release it. I must hold it in, and to do that, I need to write something else. So forgive me, please. And indulge me while I tell you stupid things. It is my way of coping, rightly or wrongly. Thank you.

Have you been having a nice summer holiday? I can't say mine has been terribly relaxing. Not that I've been doing anything strenuous or exciting. I mean, I've seen a hell of a lot of my loungeroom. And I expected to - after all, no one has abdominal surgery a few weeks before Christmas and expects to swan around on the beach with a full social calendar, right? Right.

But after four pretty crappy weeks over Christmas and New Year (literally and figuratively!), I started feeling like I could possibly rejoin family activities outside of my four walls. Cue gastro.

I might have mentioned that the Mouse spewed in the car last week, as we were on our way to Grandma's? (and were already heinously late?) Yep. So Mais chucked in the car on the Sunday evening, flopped around looking very pale on the Monday, and looked marginally better on the Tuesday morning. Which was lucky, because I needed to be at Cabrini to see my surgeon at 9.45am on the Tuesday and the plan was for us all to go up and then do something nice as a family. Cue gastro.

Halfway to the hospital, there was a spluttering, wet noise from the back seat...and some sort of solidy-type liquid was being sprayed onto the windscreen. On the inside. The Mouse was blowing chunks in a big way, all over the interior of the car, whilst crying and wiping her poor little smelly hands though her hair. The big kids were squealing with horror and basically adding to the hysteria.

We pulled over as quickly as we could, stripped the Mouse down to her nappy on some poor person's nature strip, and cleaned the car with baby wipes. Yes, you're absolutely right - we did a shocking job! And with a plastic bag of spewy clothes and wipes in the boot, and a thin veneer of vomit on pretty much everything, we sprinted our way to my appointment.

Needless to say, I went in on my own.

(And while I was in there, Christian made our wonderful family day even brighter by concentrating on avoiding some stupid pedestrians in the middle of a road works zone...and collected the door of a truck. The truck came off unscathed. My car lost the fight. Sigh.)

On Wednesday, Christian went on another bike ride, with the intention of meeting us once again at his parents' place for another birthday dinner (we have a lot of birthdays in January...there's a lot of cake!!). And once again, (cue gastro!) I was detained by vomit. This time, Phoebalina hurled neatly and decorously onto the loungeroom carpet. There was no warning - she was just sitting there, ready to leave. She murmured sweetly, "Mummy, I'm going to be sick," and she was. Just like that.

The poor child apologised so much I had a hard time convincing her that it was ok. Well, not ok...but you know. Not punishable by flogging. She slept nearly round-the-clock, burning a feverish temperature and deathly pale.

The next morning, I left Phoebs with Daddy and took an almost-recovered Mouse and a perky Jack to purchase his new school uniform. We were right at the back of the crammed uniform shop, laden with polo shirts and a hat, when Jack turned white. Cue gastro. (*sigh*) One nanosecond later, he hurled all over the shop floor, and lots (and I do mean LOTS) of high school uniforms. LOTS.

Since he managed to get Maisie in the deluge, she started wailing, and combined with my shrieks to "Hold it in! For the love of God, hold it in!!!", the poor child ran to the front of the shop, and vomited a pool of spew at the front door. He sat, whiter than white, trembling, while I apologised my face off. The lady in the shop could not have been nicer. She wouldn't hear of me cleaning up the mess, and brushed away my pleas to at least pay for the damage. She kept telling me that she was a mother too, and that these things happened. Still, seriously my most embarrassing parental moment ever. Might wear a mask next year to buy Phoebs' Prep uniform.

Back home, the vom-fest continued with Jack and Phoebe throughout Thursday and Friday. Phoebe grew so ill, we took her to the doctor on the Friday morning. When an 18kg child loses 4kg in a week, it's mildly concerning to say the least...even when that child sits in the doctor's office, pale, drawn face above her nightie, retching into a bowl, and tries to make polite society conversation. My daughter will be the Queen one day, without a shadow of a doubt.

After 24 hours of real concern, Phoebe began to keep water down. And slowly, slowly, my kids began to recover. They're still not eating to their normal capacities (silver lining: the grocery bill was considerably smaller this week!) but now they seem like their old selves again...squabbling over their 'spot' on the couch; squabbling over the scooters in the back yard; squabbling over pretty much anything you could name. So, back to normal.

Only...now it's Christian's turn. Not gastro. We think. (We hope!) No, we think Christian has food poisoning acquired from a late-night chicken pizza on his way home from golf yesterday. He is wretched. I am more thankful than I can say that I have not had to clean up his vomit. I mean, come on. I love him more than words can say, but...there's a line. Ok?

So the kids and I hunkered down inside today, away from the heat (and from Daddy lying crumpled in the bedroom), until the sting in the sun had gone down a little. We met Narnie, Miffy and Asha at the beach and had a lovely, reviving swim in the ocean. Amazing how salt water can dissolve the stench of vomit ingrained inside your nostrils...

After I had (single-handedly) driven three happy, wet, sandy kids home, fed them a picnic dinner, bathed them and dressed them in cool, clean pyjamas, I put them to bed happy as Larry. (Who, BTW, I'd love to meet one day - I need to learn from him I reckon). Apart from Maisie getting into the toy box at the end of her cot and dressing herself in a 'danshing' meant for a Cabbage Patch Kid, it was an uneventful bedtime. No vomit. Yippee.

As for tomorrow? I have two resolutions. To remind myself that life is for living, and that excess crying makes one ugly (and although the crying is inevitable, I should at least attempt to keep it at bay for one more day, if only for the sake of those around me). And to get the car detailed. Urgh.