The recovery period has started. I’m not sure I like it. I have a little feeling I may be having my chain yanked here…just a guess, you know? Ed’s prior ability to communicate in sentences has been replaced with single words, strung out in wingey voices. “Tiiiieeeereeed”. He put down his spoon in his cereal bowl this morning (never not been ill enough to eat of course) and casted his eyes down to his bowl…then they flickered up to make sure I was watching him…”chwerioooo’s”. Single words+Baby voice+no please or thankyou = irritated mother whose knuckles turn white as she grips the milk carton.
It was a miracle we survived breakfast. Or rather, a miracle that Ed did. Alex had climbed out of his highchair and across the breakfast bar and was sucking on the antibacterial spray before I realised. It was time to get out of the house and see other people. I tried to put Eds shoes on and he wailed about how I was putting them on “No one UNDERSTANDS me, mummy!”. And despite myself I smiled at this – I always wondered how I would handle a teenage girl. And now I knew.
Before he was a floppy mess lying under a blanket on the sofa, the stench of the mornings cheerios and disease being breathed out of his constantly open mouth, looking pathetic, like a little kitten you see on one of those adverts (please help find Moggy a home, she stinks and has mange etc). Now I hear his feet scampering round the lounge as I approach down the hallway to check on him, a quick body launch on to the sofa and a shuffle under the blanket. “JUICE!” he barks at me. I smile through gritted teeth as I silently shut the door. “He is still ill” i tell myself…
But it is a struggle. I dont know how my own mother did it. The whinging alone is awful. *throws hands in the air and clasps them in a praying position…think Madonna in Like a Prayer….with a pinny…and a few christmas pounds in need of shifting…*. I need the whinging to stop. Or to be so frequent I become deaf to that particular wave length. I need to be deaf.
During the peak of open sores I picked him up under his arms and the poor little love screamed his head off (you can tell I was genuinely concerned because of my choice of words…poor little love). Maybe this caused him to get flash backs, a sort of PTSD (Pox Traumatised Spot Disaster) or, realistically maybe he is just getting clever at working his poorliness, but this is what he said to me as three days later; I carefully lifted him gently and with the care required by a carer being examined for their NVQ3 in CARE, under his bottom, and into the car in the car park as Tesco….”Why are you HURTING ME?!!! You and daddy HURT ME!”. Imagine Homer Simpson throttled Bart round the neck and saying “why you little!”.
But I did learn something I want to pass on to others…
Apparently balloons really help a spotty willy. I wouldn’t recommend using this for advertising stuff but, Ed assures me buying him some will help him recover. It perked him up anyways.