It’s Thursday evening and we’ve just opened a lovely bottle of wine. The babies are in bed, so I pour a generous glass of the delightful liquid sunshine for Ant, and then the same for myself. The kitchen is warm from heating and cooking and the wine is cold, so it leaves a beautiful dewy condensation on the glass.
“Mum-mum! I’ve got somefink for you!” Livvy sings sweetly through the camera-monitor. I pick up the screen and bring it close to my face. I can see that she’s staring intently at something in her hands. Curious, I pop up upstairs to see what she’s holding.
“What have you got, pickle?” I ask, my equally sing-songy tone displaying absolutely no signs of my immense irritation that my glass of Picpoul de Pinet has been left abandoned on the kitchen table.
“I dunno,” she replies, studying the tacky goo between her fingers. “It’s quite squishy and a bit green and it’s all sticky and it’s got some black bits in it.” She massages a lump of solidified slime between her thumb and her fore-finger. “I think it’s a bogey,” she concludes, her head angled to one side thoughtfully, like she’s just discovered the theory of the universe.
“So it is,” I say, affirming her initial analysis. “I’ll get you a tissue and then we can say night-night.”
And that’s how it started: My Week of Snot. And what a bloody horrible week it’s been.
Because that one seemingly isolated grolly has temporarily decimated our lives; that one friendly bogger quickly turned into a frisky snotathan and then over night, that frisky snotathan turned into an intergalactic battle of bogeys, until one day, it was all that mattered. Everything else paled into insignificance. We became mere slaves to the all-mighty war of the snot kings.
The baby got the snots and an evil temperature and then Livvy got the snots and tonsillitis and an even eviler evil temperature and I got the snots and we all suffered the horror that is a M.D (Mum Down).
And I know really that it’s just the snots but I have felt truly shit: I lost my voice, had a sinus infection, my ears exploded (I’m temporarily quite deaf). And even though I’ve been off work-work (you know where you get paid) for all of half term, there has been absolutely no rest. Children don’t like that, as we know. Even more so when they’re ill and especially more so when mummy’s ill.
For the first part of this week, I woke up each morning not knowing how on earth I was going to get through the day. Sick family days are the longest days in the world and looking after children is the hardest work I have ever done, without snot. But I can’t phone in sick, although I really need to and I can’t curl up in bed, even though I desperately want to.
Snot Days are horrid. But the sun is starting to shine and summer will be here soon to dry up all the grollies.
And if not, I can’t shout and I can’t hear so we will all probably get on just fine.