Exodus

Last week when five of Monkey's classmates came down with the same vomiting bug on the same night, I felt a bit like the Israelites must have on the first Passover. Except that, unlike the Isrealites, I was fairly sure we wouldn't get to escape our nasty fate for ever. (Not that they did either, really. Maybe this is a bad simile. I don't want to get embroiled in religious wars here.)

The days went on, and my Facebook news feed informed me that others had fallen prey to the evil virus, and still we were standing unscathed. I tried not to talk about it, lest fate clobber me - especially as we'd avoided the last round when it hit the two-year-old cadre too.

You can see where this is going. This morning we were looking for Monkey's shoes (really - have you seen his other red sneaker? I have no idea where it is) when he groaned and held his tummy in a way that had us sprinting for a big bowl and some towels. The moment passed, and he said he still wanted to go to school, and I was contemplating handing the whole sorry mess of potential over to someone else for the morning (as if I would have) when he had another spasm, and I shelved that idea pretty quickly. I called the school (who wished me good luck) and Monkey was set up on the sofa, over towels, under a duvet, beside the Bowl of Doom, in front of the TV. He and I and Mabel settled in for the morning.

I was in a unique position to sympathise since, while I wasn't afflicted by the same thing, Mother Nature had decided to throw some period pain my way at exactly the same time, so while he was moaning about whatever was going on in his stomach, I was downing ibuprofen and drinking tea and being all pummelled about by my uterus. (Which is better, in this instance, than the alternative, which had been no. 2 on my list of things to worry about yesterday.)

Mabel was a bit discombobulated by all this, understandably. But irritatingly. Every time Monkey shuddered and looked like he would really like to be curled up on my understanding lap, Mabel would jump on me and demand to nurse. I gave in, as I didn't really have much choice and I thought the antibodies might be helpful if she has any chance at all of not getting this too, but poor Monkey had to make do with just holding my hand. He wasn't feverish, but was red-cheeked and sweaty and said his head was cold and his chest hurt and so did his tummy and his bum. I wasn't really sure which way to jump (literally) with all that information.

Eventually, around noon, he called a code red to be taken the bathroom, where things came to a head (or a tail), and in very short order he was feeling much better. Coincidentally, my own aches wore off around the same time, making me a much happier camper.

He's just had five slices of dry toast and a glass of water for lunch. (It's hard to follow the BRAT diet when your kid only eats one of those four things, but at least he does eat toast.) I know this isn't necessarily over - and this particular virus seems to have a really nasty recurring phase a day or two after you think you're in the clear - but for now he's feeling much more like his regular self, and I think we'll be able to go out and get some fresh air this afternoon. Which is a relief to me, and to Mabel, who had been reduced to making Lego machines that would help her brother not vomit.