Parenting with Feet

At some point soon after Slayer’s ‘Christ Illusion’ Tour in 2006 I threw up on the Tee-Shirt I bought at the show. The circumstances of this event are out of my cognitive grasp but I do remember trying to remove it without dragging the wet bit (it was beer-based) over my lovely hair. I also recall my annoyance at having barfed on it. It was already a limited-edition shirt when I bought it and its plain wording of ‘Slayer. Death by Design. 666’ somewhat contrary to the usual skull/pentagram/gore affair that I and legions of fans have come to know and love.

The irony of this event wasn’t lost on me a few days ago as I wrapped a pile of warm, yellow puke into one corner of the same shirt in order to prevent freshly deposited ex-food from making contact with my head. The missus and I hadn’t really slept for four days’ since the little fellow contracted Regan’s Beast and I was hoping this would be the symbolic end of it, here, on my beloved limited-edition Slayer shirt.

The last time the little bloke had been sick was following the egg/garlic incident in the pub before Christmas. In this already documented case it was as if he didn’t know he was being sick and was happily chatting away as great big lumps of sickie-egg tumbled left, right, centre, onto the floor from his cheery gob. But this was different. He was bent in two and retching in an adult way that was both disturbing and upsetting. After I’ve nursed a sick child a few more times I’m sure I’ll be just as laissez-faire as my friends/family were when I tried to explain how awful it was, but I was so harrowfied (my word, don’t look it up) by the initial event that I didn’t sleep that night, preferring instead to watch over him in case it happened again, which it did the following morning. That afternoon he seemed a little chirpier so we sated his new-found appetite with milks that he guzzled down like a baby goat.

Though this time he wasn’t sick, he exploded.

How on earth so much stuff can come out of something so small in such a minuscule amount of time is baffling -not that you have time to be ‘baffled’ when, all of a sudden, the floor is instantly awash with a gallon of sick and large portions of your body are sopping wet with heave. I mean it was fucking everywhere. I had to resurrect the bucket and mop which hadn’t seen the light of day since the Slayer-tee episode -and that was in a different flat in a different part of London over a decade ago when marriage, let alone children, were ludicrous concepts in the back mind of the perpetually stoned.

Despite not having slept for 36 hours we took him off to the doctors, just to be on the safe side. That small amount of professional reassurance that he just had a bug went a long way; we’ve already established in previous missives that my paranoia is limitless. He was sick that night and the following morning, the latter requiring another change of clothes (ours, I mean) and then, later that lunchtime, the better half went down with something as well.

Having slept for less time than it takes to watch ‘The Great Escape’ this wasn’t great, the end-of-days diarrhoea was most unwelcome too, though I did manage to coax the missus from her death bed to help clean that one up. I’ll spare you the details.

We’re still contending with the aftermath of the bug but things are certainly better, as too is the missus, but it’s bittersweet. This is the last week we have together before the better half returns to work. How on earth that’s going to work with his two-days at the nursery and my feast/famine writing schedule is an enigma, and on second thoughts I’m not sure if the beer-based vom on the limited-edition Slayer shirt was actually mine.

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