Better...better Get A Bucket
Illawarra Mercury
Saturday May 9, 1998
A HINT of freshness on the southern breeze,
A blush of colour on the falling leaves,
New-season apples for two,
These foolish things...remind me to get the sick bucket.
For most people, the cooler weather signifies the beginning of autumn, a time for chopping firewood, of simmering soups and comforting casseroles, romantic walks and the start of the footy season.
In our household it is the start of the vomitting season.
Without fail, the anklebiters will pick up some virus from the other little urchins at school, pre-school, playgroup, swimming lessons, music lessons and anger-management workshops _ and bring it home. And share it.
Isn't it amazing? They won't share anything else. And I rarely had a sick day until the kids came along.
Why can't they bring home stray dogs like kids are supposed to?
You know, mangy dogs with doe eyes and hearts of gold. Dogs called Bengie, Pal or Teaparty. Dogs that you threaten to give up to the dog catcher, dogs that you threaten to put in the curry, dogs that you end up keeping and allowing to sleep inside, anyway.
But no, not my two offspring. Xena the Worrier Princess and the Weird Little Fella bring home viruses. Nasty, not-quite-living creatures (viruses, not children, although that may be debatable).
Half living, half a chain of molecules.
Viruses are not the sort of creatures you want curling up in front of the fireplace in the evening and they're not the sort of creatures you can teach to catch a frisbee.
They're more like the bad guys in the Alien movies. The type of organisms only able to reproduce inside warm, living beings.
These horrid little science-fiction monsters may be microscopic but their power is awesome.
They make little heads throb, muscles ache, temperatures soar and the Worrier Princess scream like a premenstrual banshee: ``I'm gonna be sick, I'm gonna be sick, I'M GONNA BE BLLAAAHHHH."
And that makes me run faster than Rod Wishart (although he's got better legs), with my faithful sick bucket tucked under the arm and d-i-v-e for a magnificent try.
But sometimes I just don't try hard enough _ and it's the carpet that suffers.
So, I pick myself up, smouldering slightly from the carpet burns, and do my impression of Manuel from Fawlty Towers.
I comfort the Princess, run for a cloth to mop up the mess, comfort the Princess, strip the bedclothes, take off her nightie, comfort the Princess, sponge her down, put them in the washing machine, oops, not the Princess, find her a clean nightie make the bed...
``I'm gonna be sick, I'm gonna be sick..."
Where's the sick bucket? In the washing machine? In the bed? Don't ask me, I'm from Barcelona. Ah, here it is...
``...I'M GONNA BE...."
And it's a magnificent save by Mulligan.The fans go wild. The waving of scarves, the chanting in the stands. No, it's just carpet burns to the ear.
So, then it's a war of attrition with the Princess's immune system slogging it out against the virus. Twelve hours of hand holding, checking her temperature, mopping her fevered brow and disinfecting the sick bucket.
I try to comfort her by reading a story _ but Angela's Ashes is not a good choice.
The Princess doesn't want to hear about children dying from tuberculosis, pneumonia, typhoid fever, diptheria and ignorance. Neither does she want to enter into an ideological debate about the safety of modern vaccines.
But finally, her immune system wins and annihilates the virus.
She recovers quickly and I am so grateful that the chances of her catching anything more serious are limited.
Then the Little Fella suddenly pauses in the middle of practising his silly walks and says: ``Mum, w-e-l-l, actually, I think I'm gonna be sick, too..."
© 1998 Illawarra Mercury