The Day the Lurgy Came to Stay

It’s Saturday morning and I’m writing this in my silent, empty bed.  I can hear a helicopter outside, and traffic, but that’s it.  There are no demanding shouts of “Out! Out! Mummy! Daddy!”, coming from The Baby’s room.  There is (thankfully) no teeth-grinding or snoring coming from the left hand side of the bed, courtesy of The Boyfriend.  The gentle whir of the laptop and the dull traffic from the road is my soundtrack this morning.  It’s strange.

Last night was the first night The Baby spent away from home.  You see, on Wednesday The Lurgy came to stay.

It had started off like any other day, except I put The Baby down for her morning nap at 8am, and I crawled back into bed hoping for an hour’s sleep, and woke up having had two.  I woke to silence.  I crept down the landing and peeked into The Baby’s room (just to check she was, you know, breathing) and she was absolutely fast asleep, snoring her little heart out.  An hour later I had managed a peaceful, uninterrupted shower, was dressed, and getting jobs done, when The Baby woke.  Twenty minutes later, she was ratty and seemingly tired, frowning and smacking and generally being pretty horrible.  I decided she must be bored, so we went to the park.  We played on the swings, we played on the see-saw, she slid down the slide, we had a run round, and then she projectile vomited into my eye, my hair, and all down my coat.  In my eye!

OK, so maybe she wasn’t bored.  Or tired.  She was ill.  I took her to my mum’s, unsure that I could handle a vomiting toddler all by myself, and was serenaded on the ten minute journey by sounds of heaving and retching and wet stuff hitting other stuff from the back of the car.  This was pretty much how the rest of the day went.  By 6pm, I was back home, covered from hair to shoes in vomit, nursing a very poorly little girl and trying to explain (to no avail) why she couldn’t have a “bockie” (bottle of milk) or a “bickit” (biscuit), feeling awful for her.  She slept in with me that night, and didn’t disturb the whole night through.  Next day she was right as rain, as if nothing had happened, demanding bockie after bockie, chocolate and toast.  (We honestly don’t feed her crap all the time, she has had three Minstrels in her entire life, but it took less than 5 seconds for her to learn the word chocolate; she also has a habit of nicking the ginger biscuits I keep by my bed for the purpose of relieving morning sickness.  I realise that her demands for chocolate and biscuits must sound like she has the most horrendous diet, but I assure you, she doesn’t!)

Then yesterday at 6am I ran to the bathroom, was violently sick, and the day went exactly like that until 8.30pm when I eventually stopped throwing up.  The Boyfriend didn’t feel great either, and after struggling to look after her by himself all day (as I was either hugging the toilet or trying to sleep through the stomach cramps), we decided to organise The Baby’s first sleep-over at her Ma and Grumps’s house.

Which is where she is now.  And apparently, having text my mum the minute I woke to make sure everything was OK, The Baby had a full twelve hours sleep.  Success.  The Lurgy has left our house now, and I hope it doesn’t come back, but this peaceful morning thing is something I could definitely do again.


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