Pooke

Pooke.

My made-up word for the dual action of poo and puke, sickness and diarrhea, two-eys and hueys, shit and shinola, chucking it out both ends, you know?

I'm emotionally drowning in it and physically surrounded by it.

Babygirl got the bug first. Whilst sitting up all night holding her hair back I sent thanks to the God I don't believe in that at least something was stopping her from mixing with her (very good school friends-) mum. The mum that leaves her weed in places that 12 year old girls of a certain persuasion can easily steal it from. The mum that got my number and called to find out 'what the fuck old bill were up to' about the savage attack perpetrated on her daughter by her (daughter's) dad. The daughter that's apparently only in care cos of her own stupidity, unlike both of her sister's children who are, of course, only in care due to lying, scheming social workers.

Call me a snob but this is not the kind of woman that I will suffer around my babygirl.

Babyboy got it next. His grungey hair is fairly long for the second time (head lice put paid to the first attempt at an emo fringe) but he neither needed nor wanted me to hold it back as he hurled so I worried about him from a respectful distance. He's an aspie type, I kid myself that I'm used to the emotional distancing but really, it's a pms-ing bitch having to hold my immense, intense love for him at arms length when all I really want to do is grip him tightly to me and protect his special way of being from the harsh world I birthed him into.

As he recovered, so Bing fell. This was not good for him, not only because he was in the grip of a stomach virus but also, and mainly, because I'm so very crap at nursing sick grown-ups.

Oh, how I hated every single retch I heard. Mainly because I knew that it meant he really was quite ill but I couldn't change my standard reaction of disparagement. As much as my exhausted mind tried to stay in the present I just couldn't stop it falling back into the automatic response I have to anything that I perceive as weakness in men. I grew up around a man that faked a bad back simply so I could be trained to sit astride him and massage horse liniment into his naked flab whilst clad in a Strawberry Shortcake nightie that rode up as soon as I assumed the position. My mother normalised this particular act of weirdness by claiming she couldn't bear the smell of the stuff. Conversely, the pungent odour was the only thing I found pleasant about the whole experience.

To this day I can't recall any name on that brown bottle of liquid so maybe I'm not meant to smell it again.

Just as I thought the bug had run it's course through my household, No 1 Son copped it. Conveniently for him, he came down with it just as the school holidays ended so missed the first day back. Conveniently for me I simply had to go to work experience so at least I didn't have to suffer his choice of movies and greatest football manager type list shows.

I alone remain untouched by the virus. I'm not sure if this is due to a strong constitution, a knowledge that mums aren't allowed sick days or some evil universal being laughing at me cos everyone else is losing weight and I'm not.