The Christmas lurgy struck us the week before the big day – as it hit so many others. In E, the only symptom was when S got up for work (he rises at 5.30am) and found her asleep in a cot full of vomit. In my sleep addled state, I suggested leaving her in it so she got some rest, though that was before I actually saw and smelt it.
I’m not good with vomit. I can’t watch the Witches of Eastwick movie without having to leave the room for the scene where that poor woman dies through excessive vomiting, my stomach turning. As a first aider in a previous job, I was called to deal with a customer being sick all over the carpet and had to immediately leave before I joined him. Someone else brought him a bucket and scrubbed the carpet.
It was everywhere, all over her bedclothes, her sleepsuit and sleeping bag and in her hair. She seemed unconcerned, though throwing up in her sleep does scare me a little. But apparently when it’s your own child to look after, the vomit can be dealable with – or so it was here anyway. I got her up, washed her hair and got her dressed and she seemed happy enough so I packed her off to nursery for her Christmas party.
S put the bedclothes in the washing machine and unwittingly created the only major casualty of the episode. The lovely apple tree blanket I knitted for E is now a felted smaller blanket. Sad times.