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Apr 30

accurate puke

Posted on Sunday, April 30, 2017 in Family, Strange and Unusual

Wow! Four months since I last posted. I’m beginning to think that I’m on a different planet, orbiting everybody else at a different rate compared to most people. Children grow at a faster rate than I can grab a hold of. The extra life stuff that is supposed to keep me mentally healthy, the voluntary groups… friends… in my head everything happened yesterday but according to man time it was ten years ago.

*interruption from small child #1, bear with me*

It still floats though. It’s still there. Like you, reading this. I appreciate that.

I’ve had a comical day.

My puppychild is off out camping with her scout team, in the mountains, somewhere. She’s almost 13 now. The fact that I can’t contact her hurts me both in my chest, but in my stomach too. She’ll be okay. She’s tough. I hope she got that from me. *interruption from small child #2… juice???*  She’s entering womanhood soon. I want to stuff her back up into my womb sometimes.

Laughingboy seems to have Chickenpox. A rake of spots arrived on his chest and abdomen this morning when I was changing his peg stoma, which is alarming but we’re *interruption from middle child #3… my tummy hurts* dealing with a very chilled out mother here until the chilled out mother stupidly went and consulted DR GOOGLE. People with compromised immune systems.. on bank holidays there is nobody there. Nobody at the end of the phone, I felt alone, helpless. Death before it’s begun. But there are pharmacists, and beautiful people whom I’ve rarely met on internet forums who listen. And give good advice. I love these people. Everything WILL BE OKAY. Silent scream.

Today it was also Sir Fartsalot’s 7th birthday party!!! They did trampoleenee stuff. He came home feeling sick. As you do.

He puked a bit onto his bed, I don’t mind that. I’m a domino vomiter though, like when you catch the smell of sour milk, or that gone-off *interruption from small child #4… mommy mommy mommy shhhhhhh* chicken dinner at the back of the fridge in the Tupperware container that you crack open and sends you gagging.

Give me an open abscess wound any day! Or blood, or faeces. I can deal with that. Just not vomit or decay.

Getting back to the point, Sir Fartsalot YELLED from the living room: “I have to get sick!!!”

My reaction was similar to that of some poor fucker who randomly had a tarantula placed on his forehead out of the random blue. “UP UP UP! FUCK THIS LARK OF CLEANING UP VOMIT OFF DUVETS AND CARPETS!! GET TO THE BATHROOM! DEPLOY ALL UNITS!”

The vomit machine.

He made it. There was prolific spewage. It came out of his nose, and almost came out of his eyeballs. I was so proud that he got everything into*interruption from child #5 mummy read me a story* the toilet bowl and the smell! The smell! I had to grin a lot. Fake grinning is a great way to suppress the gag reflex, this is also useful for the evil gick that is cat shit.

Then there’s the toddler. She’s all

MUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMYMUMMY MUMMY

all the way through all of this.

and there’s NOBODY TO HELP. BuT there iS my senSe of huM our.

I made my bed, and I shall lie in it. I wish I could be a cave woman with supportive mothers and aunties and cousins and sisters and I would never be alone, but that will never be again but at the same time my son would not be alive if it weren’t for modern technology, if only there could be an in-between. I found a good group to talk to though, in the dark times, you know who you are, you are my cavewomen. Thank you Splinters.

Thank you. And my DAD. ALWAYS MY DAD. HE MADE ME. WHO. I. AM. For better or worse. He worked hardest to make all of this. Sometimes when I find myself rocking in a corner I think of him and find my sense of humour again.

To everyone else in the internetosphere, these are that rantings of a woman who is close to the edge. I would love to meet myself as I was ten years ago and talk to her, and warn her, and hug her, and be her mother.

But I’m fine.

We’re fine.

It may be a while before I post again, though I really want to.

Bring wine.

I hope this explains why I don’t blog a lot. It’s all venting, normally my pillow gets it. But TOdaY it iS YoU.

And I will definitely regret this tomorrow.

Bring on the comments

  1. Grandad says:

    In fairness, Yer Ma did most of the making of you as you are and put in a lot more effort than I did.

    Where’s TAT?

  2. Ginger Mick says:

    May I please offer a number of very solid hugs?

  3. Brianf says:

    Love ya’ K8!
    and we,ve never really met.

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