We headed up to spend Easter in Hermanus – as we usually do.
It rains each Easter without fail – but like Lemmings we head up any way, in the hope that maybe this year it would not rain and we could get a last weekend where the kids could play in the sea sand and mom could drink wine and read her book.
Unfortunately fantasies are just that, illusions created in our minds, that disappear in the harsh light of the day after.
This Easter weekend was no exception.
Kennith had come down with a form of the Ebola virus which had him coughing up parts of his lung.
If I was lucky, he farted at the same time as he coughed. Unfortunately after the first dozen or so times, it was no longer funny.
The kids were all ill. All three of them had huge chunks of mucus sliding out their noses and resting on their respective top lip. The only mildly interesting part was me, comparing whose was less green and whose would get to the top lip first.
The weather turned dreadful and we were stuck inside. My mother’s house has wooden floors – three kids+wooden floors+no wine for sale on religious holidays = mom having a hemorrhage of her own.
Anyway, Kennith proceeded to get sicker and sicker. He was looking and sounding really bad – like rush you to the ER bad.
But I was lacking in sympathy for a few reasons.
- We were sleeping in the same room – Kennith is not coughing as much as taking a lung biopsy on himself – so I lie there while this retching coughing is going on and on …. I am not exactly sleeping.
- Kennith is retching and retching and when he has stopped retching and coughing, and finally falls asleep, Isabelle who is sharing our room wakes up – so if I am not awake listening to Kennith expel bodily fluid, I am attending to Isabelle who is coughing and crying.
- Morning comes, and Kennith is exhausted as he is sick and has been coughing, so he will lie in and sleep late – but me who has been listening to coughing and alternating sorting out Isabelle, is up at 6am with the kids as Kennith needs to sleep.
- We are trapped inside and it is so just not fun!
Anyway, we decide that we are going to head home on Tuesday instead of Wednesday.
We all get in the car. Kennith opts to drive as he does not like to be a passenger/my driving/feeling emasculated by letting a woman drive (leave which ever is the most relevant) and we head home.
It is all going quite well.
Traffic not too bad – kids are in varying degrees of “not feeling well” so are a quite ‘medicated’ and thus sleepy.
We are on the R300 about 15 minutes from home.
Connor goes:”Mom I am not feeling so good.”
Me: “How are you “not feeling so good? i.e. point to a place”
Connor: “Here” – indicating his throat – “it’s sore!”
Me (relieved it is not nausea): “Okay my boy, just sit tight we will be home in a few minutes.”
A few moments pass.
Connor: “Mom, I am not feeling goooooodddd…”
Me – looking a bit more panicky – “where?”
Connor indicates his throat, and I judge by his slightly green complexion, and that strange thing people do with their throats when they are about to expel the content of their stomach, that things are about to get very chaotic.
I am buckled in to the front seat.
Three kids buckled up and packed in tightly with luggage in the back seat.
I indicate to Kennith in a rather insistent voice that he needs to pull over NOW!!
Kennith can’t pull over – and drives faster, which is making it harder for me to get out the car and get Connor out the car.
I realize that things are going to go from bad to really bad in no time, and Connor is really starting to look violently green.
I quickly glance around the car, and realist that my handbag appears to be the only receptacle available. I eliminate that as an option, as I am not quite ready to throw the bag away - and look some more.
Connor unfortunately has run out of patience and he starts doing that “uccccchhhh-uccccchhhh” sound that every parent recognizes.
I grab Isabelle’s pink blanket and attempt to make an origami swan, and when that fails I create a sort of loose bowl-shaped object and get it under Connor’s mouth.
Slightly too late – I should have spent less time on the design.
Connor is puking – Georgia – in her defense is just looking at him (she is sitting right next to him, so really she is the one with the most to lose!).
Isabelle is too stunned by the now violent “uccccchhhh-uccccchhhh” coming from the backseat to cry about her blanket being snatched away from her.
It is mayhem.
Connor is projectile vomiting.
We still appear to be driving.
Connor vomited the blanket-bowl full.
I was trying to fold it over and make a new bowl without pouring it over the car, while Kennith is doing 180km on the R300 and I am screaming for him to pull over, and he is screaming that he cannot pull over and Connor is going “uccccchhhh-uccccchhhh”!!
I fold the blanket-bowl to make a new bowl area, and then Connor does a bit more vomiting – it is quite impressive how much managed to come out of him, and how much the fleece-pink-blankie bowl managed to hold.
I did catch most of it in the blanket – I must really applaud the girls who sat there in stunned silence while total fekn mayhem is going on 30cm away from them.
I am still buckled in to the front seat, but twisting around and reaching over to catch vomit in the pink blankie!
Connor is apologizing for vomiting.
Georgia in a small voice is going: “Accchhh, Connor vomited on my doggie!”
I am trying to keep calm, because actually I could use a good vomit about now.
Connor is still apologizing for vomiting.
So I catch all I can. I am trying to fold blanket up so that it does not all go sloshing all over the kids.
I am trying to undress Connor as he has got vomit on his jersey, his pants, his belt – and I really do not need him to vomit when he sees vomit.
I get all the stuff off him – while we are doing 180km and all buckled up – I put all the vomit-paraphernalia at my feet in a ball, and we all turn around and face front and try to get home in one piece.
I know there is vomit at my feet as I can feel it against my foot and my leg!
Georgia still complaining in a small voice: “Connor vomited on my doggie!”
I reassure her that it is fine, we can wash doggie and everything will be as it should be.
We get home, and unpack – and guess who gets to flick vomit off the pink blankie before she does 5 loads of Easter washing?!
I better get a good bloody present this year come mother’s day, I will really get annoyed if all I get is a damn macaroni necklace again!!