My 9-year-old, the vomit comet
I’ve been battling this bloody cold for a week or so now, and it doesn’t seem to be easing up. It’s only a matter of time before I become a vomit comet.
Wednesday morning I could barely drag myself out of bed, eventually managing to stagger out of bed a couple of hours after necking some cold and flu remedy tablets, and as it is Mel’s birthday this weekend, I’ve had the kids from Friday night through to Sunday in lieu of her doing the same for me in a few weeks.
The kids have been fairly good all weekend, but after dinner middle daughter, who is 9-years-old, told me she wasn’t feeling very well.
This is normally the precursor to several hours of the “Anything to not go to bed” game that we play. A game invented eons ago by a bored child and passed down from generation to generation, through friends and siblings, at home and at sleepovers.
Many adults refuse to acknowledge the game exists.
“My child really IS ill,” they proclaim.
“My child truly believes that there IS a monster under her bed,” they say.
“My child,” they boast, a ringing laughter in their voice, “knows better than to lie to me. My child knows better than to play games.”
A smaller section of parents are the complete opposite. “My child isn’t ill,” they will think, before sternly telling said child to go to bed.
“There are no such things as monsters!” they’ll say, slightly frazzled, adding “Go. To. Bed.” complete with additional full stops.
“MY child,” they boast, a ringing laughter in their voice, “knows what happens to them IF they lie to me. My child knows what happens if they play games.”
I fall into the latter camp.
Here is my evening, as I chose to share it on Facebook:
Yuk. My daughter, the vomit comet!
Roll on Sunday indeed!