A resurgence of the tummy bug in our home has reminded us that words are not the only way to say ‘I love you’.
This time The Apprentice was one of the hardest hit by the bug, experiencing projectile expulsion of noxious matter from both ends. Her insides were so twisted in pain and her woeful moaning so loud during the night that Mr T wasn’t sure if she was in pain or the throws of passion. Unfortunately for TAB (The Apprentice’s Boyfriend), he was staying at our place, so he became The Apprentice’s nurse for the night.
While Mr T and I spent the night changing Tomboy’s bed sheets and holding her hair back while she vomited, TAB did the same for The Apprentice. When The Apprentice was stuck on the toilet and a bucket didn’t arrive in time, TAB didn’t hesitate to mop up the resultant mess. He helped her to the shower, cleaned her up and then sought new sheets for their bed. Not once did I hear him complain.
He was even chivalrous about The Apprentice’s mishaps. When I saw him changing the bed sheets, I said, ‘Oh no, did she get the bed too?’
TAB said nothing. He just gave me a sad, but knowing look. Then The Apprentice said, ‘It just shot out my bum before I knew it was even coming.’
‘You shit the bed?!’ I exclaimed.
TAB continued to change the sheets, and then helped The Apprentice back into bed before climbing in next to her. If getting back into bed with someone after they’ve shit in it doesn’t say ‘I love you’, I don’t know what does.
Once again we are under attack as another tummy bug barges into our home. (More on that in a later post.) It doesn’t seem to matter how many dirty nappies the children watch me change or how much vomit they ogle when one of their siblings heaves into a bucket, they have an obscene fascination for the waste products that leave our bodies.
Sometimes this fascination extends to our internal organs as well. While waiting to pay the bill after having a renal ultrasound one morning, Boywonder asked me why we were at a different doctor to where we usually go. I explained that the doctor needed to look at my kidneys and bladder.
‘Did he take them out and have a look? Can I look too?’ asked Boywonder as he grabbed my shirt, ready to lift it and look for himself.
After I explained that the doctor uses a special machine to see my kidneys and bladder, and it certainly doesn’t involve taking them out, Boywonder then asked,
‘What’s a bladder? Can I look at your bladder?’
I enlightened my budding anatomist by placing a little pressure on his bladder and asking him if it made him want to wee.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘That’s your bladder!’
He was finally happy with these explanations. That was until I had to pick up another four-litre bottle so I could perform the 24-hour urine test again.
After we arrived home, Boywonder picked the bottle up and asked, ‘Do you have to wee in the bottle again, Mummy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I wee in it too?’
‘NO!’ I replied as I took the bottle from him.
‘But I have a bladder too!’ was Boywonder’s argument.
‘Everyone has a bladder, but they are not all going to be contributing to my bottle!’ I replied, hugging the bottle to my chest. I then hurried to the toilet with my bottle before Boywonder gave me the lecture on sharing that he’d heard so often from me.
Five nights out of seven, Tomboy gets the urge to evacuate her bowels mid-dinner. I don’t know if she’s making more room in her belly or just wants to escape the dinner table for a while, but it’s a regular occurrence. It wouldn’t be such a problem if she learned to wipe her own bum!
On this occasion she said she needed to ‘go to the toilet’ and left the table. Not long after she disappeared into the toilet (the room, not the actual toilet), she yelled out, ‘I found a poo!’
We thought that she had put off pooing because of her discovery, so I yelled back, ‘Whose poo?’
‘My poo!’ was her reply.
We’re not sure if it was a ‘surprise’ poo (the poo you don’t know about until it’s arrived) or if this was her first ever look in the toilet bowl after doing her business. She gets rather indignant when asked sensitive questions, especially if everyone’s attention is on her, awaiting a reply, so we left that one alone.
And just in case you’re wondering – I got to wipe her bum.
The week before before Mr T went into hospital to have his salivary gland removed, we were invaded by tummy bugs. These weren’t your usual tummy bugs that laid you out on the couch for 24 hours with your head in a bucket. They were smart bugs that moved with stealth. They camouflaged themselves well and threw random vomit bombs at the children, so each time a child had finished coating their bed in vomit, they felt well enough to run about and play again…until the next vomit bomb hit.
Boywonder fought well and only succumbed for half a day. Great for him; not so great for us. Our expectations for the girls’ recovery were completely misled by his quick recovery.
The next night Tomboy’s first vomit bomb hit at 11 pm.
Miss Flora woke at 5 am – where she was sleeping next to me in our bed – and vomited on the bed. Later that day she woke from her afternoon nap and climbed onto my lap for a cuddle. Without any warning, I – and my leather office chair – were hit with a decimating vomit bomb. With no one in the room to assist in the defence, I tried to calmly yell for help. Miss Flora was already distressed at this strange substance hurtling itself out of her body, and I knew that she’d misinterpret my call for help as panic if I yelled too loud or too fast. I didn’t want to scare Miss Flora and cause the shrapnel to fall on the carpet. She looked around as I called, so I placed my palm on the side of her face and gently turned her face towards me. ‘Keep looking at Mummy in case anymore comes out.’ I didn’t want her to vomit on the carpet, and since I was already coated in it…
I told her to vomit on me!
In between the vomit bombs they were up and playing like normal, so each time we thought it was safe to pack away the buckets, the attack would start again.
Later that day it was Tomboy’s turn again – on the carpet outside the bathroom – two feet from the tiled bathroom floor.
A couple of hours after we got all three bedded down for the night, Tomboy was again under attack. We actually had Miss Flora sleeping in her cot (instead of our bed), but after another assault on Tomboy we couldn't sleep. Every time we heard Miss Flora make a noise or move, we thought she was going to vomit, so we'd leap out of bed with bowl in hand ready to catch it. Finally, at around 1 am, she made a wet noise with her mouth, so I leapt out of bed with the bowl, Mr T turned the lamp on and our panic woke her. She hadn't vomited, she was just lip-smacking in her sleep.
So then we had to take her into our bed. Mr T moved to the single mattress on the floor and was soon snoring. I spent the rest of the night lying in our bed next to Miss Flora, who has gone back to sleep on her blanket and towel (to protect our bed), listening to Mr T snore. Great! His charge has vomited, so there's a good chance he won't have to get up again through the night, but I'm lying here next to the other one waiting for the inevitable. Every time Miss Flora made a sound or moved I'd sit up in bed and reach for the bowl. I also had to stay close to her to ensure she stayed on the side of the bed that had the towel and blanket protecting it, so I was constantly in the firing line when she was facing me.
After all that, she didn't vomit again!
The tummy bug attack was over…or was it?
Unfortunately, two days after Mr T’s operation I succumbed to the tummy bug. A few hours later Mr T succumbed to it. Fortunately for me, I hadn’t had a major operation inside my mouth. Unfortunately for Mr T – he had.
Every now and then kindergarten children produce something a little more interesting than the standard odd-shaped circle containing three dots and a line to represent a face. After completing the picture with four longer lines pointing in random directions to represent the arms and legs, they incorporate their imagination into the drawings, but the results aren’t always what we expect.
Here’s a picture that Tomboy painted at kindergarten this week. I’m sure that, like me, you’re wondering what the short middle leg is and I have no doubt that, like me, you guessed right – it’s a willeh!
Just to be sure, I asked Tomboy and she confirmed it. She called the strange looking creature a willeh monster.
‘So it’s a boy monster,’ I said.
‘No, it’s a mummy monster,’ she replied.
‘But it has a willeh!’
‘Yes, it’s a mummy willeh monster,’ replied Tomboy matter of factly.
I reminded her, ‘I don’t have a willeh.’
‘I know, I was just pretending.’
So last week she told Mr T he had big boobs and this week she’s painting mummy as a monster with a willeh. (Mr T thought he had problems!)
There are many theories that can be tossed about on this one. Maybe she sees me as a monster when I’m angry (and rightly so), but that doesn’t explain the willeh.
She’s always been a bit put out that Mr T and Boywonder have willehs and we don’t. (It doesn’t help that Boywonder says they’re awesome because they have willehs.) Maybe she thinks she’s doing me a favour by giving me a willeh.
My favourite theory is that Mummy wears the pants!
So, Mummy looks like a monster when she’s angry, but she’s an awesome monster because she has a willeh.
Yep, that definitely says that I wear the pants…especially when I’m angry!
Why do so many men fear that their son (especially if he's an only son) might grow up to be homosexual?
Mr T has often expressed concern that Boywonder might grow up with gay tendencies, because he is constantly in the company of his four sisters, and playing dress-ups (in women's clothing as much as men's). I believe the fear isn't really about the son's masculinity, but their own, and today, Boywonder gave Mr T something to think about.
Tomboy, Boywonder and Miss Flora spent the morning rummaging through the dress-up box. Like most children, their favourite costumes are the ones that mimmick adults, so it wasn't surprising to see Tomboy and Boywonder wearing large jackets and neckties with handbags slung over their shoulders.
Boywonder asked me to help do up the buttons on his jacket and adjust the old Woolworths scarf around his neck that Uni Student used to wear to work. Once finished, he informed me that he was 'going to work'.
A little confused about the mix of male and female clothes and accessories, I asked, 'As a man or a woman?'
'As a man,' he replied indignantly. 'I have a handbag like Daddy!'
Although the handbag slung over Boywonder's shoulder was small on an adult, it was quite large next to him, looking much like Mr T's large side bag does when he goes to work.
So next time Mr T worries that too many females are affecting Boywonder's masculinity, I will remind him that his handbag is bigger than mine!
We bought new underwear for Tomboy and Boywonder last week. Tomboy was thrilled with her ‘seven days of the week’ underwear. Unfortunately, they didn’t have ‘days of the week’ underwear for boys, so Boywonder had to settle for pirates.
The new underwear instantly added a new routine to our morning; Tomboy always asked what day was written on her underwear as she dressed. After checking her underwear (because that’s the only way I know what day it is) I confirmed it was Monday. Not content with ‘Ahoy there!’ plastered on the front of his underwear, Boywonder announced that he wanted underwear that told him the weather.
‘You want weather predicting underwear?’ I asked with eyebrows raised. I immediately imagined a huge satellite dish hanging off the side of his underwear and a digital panel at the front that displayed the temperature with a picture of the sun, clouds or rain. I laughed to myself when I further imagined the underwear giving him a taste of the weather; he’d soon change his mind if it were snowing!
We won’t be rushing to the patent office with weather predicting underwear, but I will keep an eye out for something that displays the sun, clouds or rain next time we’re in the underwear section when shopping…or is that the meteorology section?
Boywonder (4 years old) – When asked when and how he got the large bruise on his shin, Boywonder replied, ‘That happened when I was young.’
Me – Wheat and concentrated tomato are just two of the many things that upset Miss Flora’s tummy. After finding a wheat-free pasta in the health food aisle of the supermarket, I turned to Uni Student and asked, ‘Do you think anyone makes a tomato-free pasta sauce?’
Mr T is one of those men that will suffer through random bouts of pain if it means he can avoid going to the doctor. As long as the pain subsides occasionally he’ll soldier through it, because it’s easier to cope with than hearing a medical professional tell him that his blood pressure is too high, his cholesterol levels are worrying and he needs to lose weight.
I have since clued our doctor up on Mr T’s procrastination when it comes to his own health, so when I do get him there, the doctor orders a battery of tests. This presents me with the next challenge – getting Mr T to the pathology rooms.
After four months of further procrastination by Mr T, I tricked him into committing a morning to his blood tests. He thought I was asking for help with the kids; the realisation that I had tricked him reminded him that he had married a woman that wasn’t worried about bending the truth if it meant her husband would take better care of himself. Unfortunately for Mr T, and unbeknownst to me, the doctor had ordered a new test that he’d not had before – the 24-hour urine test.
When Mr T returned home from the pathology rooms, he walked in the front door with a wad of cotton wool stuck to his arm, a ‘why me’ look on his face, and a large plastic shopping bag in his hand.
‘What’s that?’ I asked as I looked at the large pathology emblem plastered on the side of the bag.
Mr T sighed, pulled an empty, 4-litre, plastic bottle out of the bag and said, ‘I have to pee in it.’
He looked miserable, so being the compassionate wife I am, I laughed long and hard, and then proceeded to tell Uni Student about Mr T’s dilemma. She tried to stifle her amusement for a couple of seconds, which was much more restraint than I’d shown. As soon as we stopped laughing, Uni Student’s boyfriend (USB) walked through the door, so we filled him in on the joke. He was his usual polite self and didn’t laugh. He even tried to make Mr T feel better by telling him that USB’s mother had performed the test several times in the past. And that was the end of Uni Student’s and my fun … or was it?
Mr T had to spend twenty-four hours filling his 4-litre bottle with urine. It wasn’t the amount of urine or how long he had to use the bottle for that worried him. It was walking back into a crowded, pathology waiting room with a massive bottle of urine. Pathology waiting rooms aren’t always crowded, but they are when you have a very large, transparent bottle of urine in your hand.
Maintaining a compassionate demeanour while injecting humour into the situation isn’t easy. Determined to make Mr T feel better, I made a few suggestions.
‘I could take bets on how full the bottle is at the end of twenty-four hours.’
Mr T frowned.
‘I could document it with the new video camera!’
Mr T growled.
Sometimes he needs a little encouragement to laugh at himself, so while he was at work I started documenting with the video camera. He’d come around to the idea … eventually … I think.
I soon discovered that it’s not easy coming up with witty things to say about an empty, 4-litre, urine bottle, so I enlisted the help of Boywonder.
‘This is the bottle Daddy has to pee in for twenty-four hours. Do you think he’ll fill it?’ I asked.
‘Yes! Can I pee in it too?’ replied Boywonder.
What boy doesn’t want to share experiences with his dad?! Of course I said no.
When gently telling Mr T about the first instalment in the urine bottle documentary, he announced the idea of his four-year-old son helping fill the bottle as brilliant; healthy young urine would dilute any evil results present in Mr T’s.
My other challenge was ensuring Mr T always used the one toilet that had his wee bottle in it (we have three toilets in our home), so I stuck a note that said, ‘wee wee in bottle’ on the door of the other two toilets. He didn’t find this very amusing either, but I documented it as well (for the sake of posterity).
I’m proud to say that Mr T did very well and toddled off the next morning with his bottle more than half full! Fortunately for us (unfortunately for him), we get to repeat it all again in six months time. Well, he does, we just get to think up new urine bottle jokes.
And the results? – Mr T’s blood pressure is good, but he does need to lose a little weight to help lower his cholesterol. As for the documentary, I saw a smile playing about Mr T’s mouth as he watched The Wee Wee Challenge so I’ve declared it a smiling success.
Some comical quotes straight from the mouths of my children...
Apprentice trying to make Mr T feel better about his baldness – 'You're not bald, you just have a big forehead.'
Boywonder offering to look after USB's laptop – 'I'll keep an eye from it.' (Because we all know how eyes like to attack laptops. Unfortunately he could only keep one from it at a time.)
Apprentice driving to her home in the western suburbs at dusk with the sun in her eyes – 'They really should consider where they put suburbs!'
I mentioned in a previous post that Boywonder wanted a day for himself, but since he hadn’t set a date we didn’t take it too seriously. We discovered today that he had set a date - Mothers Day!
At 9 am, after we finished eating breakfast and unwrapping my presents, Boywonder said, 'Well, that was a good Mothers Day.'
He then put on the badge he'd received on a birthday card last October and declared the day his. He called it ‘Boys Day’.
Cheeky sod!
I spent Mothers Day doing what I do best, being a mother.
I did the ironing and then I washed Apprentice’s clothes, because she doesn't have a washing machine and ran out of time to wash them yesterday. She was coming back to do it today, but I knew she wouldn't get it dry in time. Then I helped Uni Student with research for an essay she was having trouble with about the changes to the workplace acts.
Five minutes after posting this I will begin some ‘me’ time; I will have access to a timed assignment that I must complete before 10pm tomorrow night.Some may gasp and splutter, 'that's not 'me' time', but to me it's very much about 'me'.
Some might think my day sounded as bad if not worse than any other day, but I don’t have to cook any meals today, and that is a big help. Helping my children always makes me feel good.
Happy Mothers Day to all those hard working mothers out there.I think this rose is symbolic of the love, blood, sweat and tears that comes with the job.
Rights and Responsibilities under the Fair Work Act 2009
Miss Flora enjoyed tucking into a wheat-free tea cake, which had a thin layer of chocolate icing. We were hoping it was enough icing to get a nice, ‘messy face’ photo, but not enough for the cocoa to upset her belly. She spent the early hours of next morning throwing herself about the bed restlessly, so her small intake of cocoa was too much for her to handle. At least she enjoyed her hot chips for dinner and cake for dessert. We also had pavlova, because she loves it and doesn’t react to the sugar and egg.
She wasted no time ripping open her presents after dinner and gave us strange looks every time we threw the brightly coloured, ‘noisy when it crinkles’ paper away. I know I could’ve saved a lot of money by buying her a couple of packets of coloured cellophane paper, and making scrunch balls for her, but her ability to consume copious amounts of paper in one sitting was a little worrisome.
Our family enjoys toilet humour; with four adults and three children under the one roof, we don’t have much choice. We could: a) pretend no one ever makes rude noises or disgusting smells (hard to do after a curry dinner), b) continually run to the toilet to hide our offensive expulsions, or c) make fun of it.
We’ve been reinforcing manners lately to ensure Boywonder and Tomboy remember to say excuse me after burping and farting, especially since they both attend kindergarten. They’re doing very well with it, despite the fact the adults in the house like to sit, smile quietly, and wait for the first victim to notice the skunk like odour before excusing his or herself.
I was suffering with quite a rumbly belly one morning and thought I could get away with a sneaky smell or two. Boywonder proved me wrong.
‘Who farted?’ he asked loudly.
‘It was me, sorry,’ I replied with a smirk on my face.
‘That stinks! Say excuse me, Mum!’ he demanded.
‘Excuse me,’ I replied sheepishly.
I thought that was the end of our exchange and that I was forgiven my indiscretion.
‘Oh! I can still smell it!’ whined Boywonder.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Say excuse me again, I can still smell it!’
I don’t know how, but Boywonder believed that saying ‘excuse me’ would make the bad smell magically disappear. I would've spent more time explaining things, but by the time I’d finished laughing at his confusion over the power of ‘excuse me’, the smell had dispersed and he had run off to play.
I’m sure it won’t be long until Mr T teaches him the ‘pull my finger’ joke.
I'm Mrs T – gluten and wheat intolerant, and allergic to plantain weed and dust mites, a wife, mother, student, writer and editor. I'm married to Mr T, a hard-working and supportive husband and father. I've created five human beings – Junior Accountant, who lives at home with us; The Apprentice, who lives with her boyfriend, TAB (The Apprentice's boyfriend), on the other side of town; and Boywonder, Tomboy, and Miss Flora, who all still wet the bed. JAB (Junior Accountant's boyfriend) is a regular visitor. With my food intolerances and allergies, Junior Accountant's allergies to housework, two school children and a preschooler that makes the most of being the baby of the family, drama is a regular occurrence in our household.
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