Friday, 11 December 2009


Shouty was sick this evening.
He wasn't feeling especially happy during dinner.
A day of dancing, shouting "goal!" and harassing the dog really takes it toll on the little chap.
I mean, he'd hardly touched his crinkle cut oven chips I'd got out of the freezer for his tea.
And I'd had to take careful aim when I was trying to get the fruit mush down his neck for pudding.
As bedtime approached he was hanging out, as usual, at the bottom of the stairs.
He likes it there.
Sometimes on the last step, sometimes on the hallway floor, always that vicinity. When he manages it, he hangs precariously from the squeaky stairgate that's positioned there to stop him from going upstairs and breaking it.
I suspect this is what he was doing this evening, a bit of innocent gymnastic apparatus work.
Probably a bit ambitious, I doubt he had even warmed up.
But him dangling himself from a loose bit of hinged metal turned out to be the trigger for my bra getting filled up with orange sick.
I was in the kitchen folding washing when there was a muffled thud and clonging radiator noise.
And then Shouty burst in to tears.
Quick as a wink husband and I raced to the scene, noting that Eldest son was hastily fleeing the scene.
Instantly suspicious I immediately accused Eldest of hurting Shouty as I picked him up from the hall floor. I have 18 months experience dealing with front line action between my sons.
It can be rough.
And it can be bitey.
Shouty's ear had suffered some kind of trauma, it was super red and he was rubbing it gently as he screamed.
There were no obvious teeth marks which was a relief but perhaps the ear cartilage isn't all that compliant?
Sensitive to his pain I wrenched Shouty's hand away from his sore ear and felt it, possibly a bit roughly, for spit.
I have no formal forensic training but have developed this technique for detecting bites: if it's a bit damp it might have been chewed.
I had his ear in my hand.
At this stage all I could do was hold the little fella as he writhed in my arms.
Poor poor thing was really hurting and crying hard.
Full on crying sometimes makes him cough a bit and by Jove he started to cough up a storm. Suddenly he sounded like he'd been working down a coal mine for 20 years. And big coughing after food with Shouty generally develops into a tirade of vomit.
He didn't disappoint.
In short bursts up came his dinner.
So much more food than I thought he'd had.
A bit cheesy smelling.
And very warm.
By now I had him clutched against my chest as I sat on the wooden hallway floor.
I decided to keep as still as possible, weather the storm, as they say, try not to move the patient until we know the sicking has ceased.
I thought my zip up hoodie would soak up a lot of the muck and figured a straightforward full costume change in the hall immediately after the incident would be all the clearing up required.
He hadn't eaten enough for a puddle to form on my thighs and then become a stream that dripped on to the floor, had he?
Had he ever.
It kept on coming, running off me, then directly onto and between the floorboards.
That puke is going to live in this house longer than any of us.
The good news is he did stop.
He was on remarkably good form as soon as his stinking clothes had been removed.
It takes more than a puke puddle to get Shouty down!
So, whilst I busied myself with flicking bits of sweetcorn from my arm and slipping out of my still warm clothes, my youngest son got back on the horse.
Or rather, he went back dangling at bottom of the stairs.


  1. Oh.My.Gods. I am so grateful that my sons very rarely puke. Having said that all three of them will probably now barf till January just to prove me wrong.

  2. Oh, yes, and the fact that it's warm makes it somehow worse too. I remember Ned throwing up Weetabix-based vomit in our bed. We changed him, us, the bed, got back in.... and he did it again. Happy days.