Reality Bites (And Sometimes It Throws Up Too)

I remember clearly the moment that the reality of being a mother hit me. In limbo, adrift between India and Ireland, we were staying with family when the Very Small Girl had her first real illness: a nasty bout of flu. It was the middle of the night and not a single person was awake other than she and I. And sitting there, painfully alone in the silent darkness as I tried to soothe her to sleep, it struck me - this is what it means to be this child’s mother. Being her mother means being the only person who will do at 2am when she has a fever. The enormity of this privilege was not lost on me, even at that time of the morning.

Now that the Very Small Boy has started playschool, we suspected it wouldn’t be long before he started to come down with all the usual bugs (the first thing he did on his first day of “settling in” was dash over to a small snotty-nosed child and take a large swig from his beaker of juice). And I should have realised yesterday that something was afoot when, half-way through our daily walk, the Very Small Boy, usually so full of energy, gave up and whinged to be carried home.

“Mummy, slow down!” whined the Small Girl, trotting along behind me as I strode off with the Very Small Boy slung over my shoulder. I was trying to remain cheerful, but it wasn’t easy: the Very Small Boy had inadvertently trodden in dog poo, which I had then inadvertently got all over my trousers, coat and jumper as I carried him.

I changed into fresh clothes when we got home, throwing the soiled ones, along with the offending shoes, into the utility room to be dealt with at some later date. The Very Small Boy (looking distinctly red about the eyes) whimpered into his dinner, managing to eat just enough of it to do some serious damage a few hours later when it came back up again – all over his cot, sheets, mattress and pyjamas.

“My poor brave little soldier”, I whispered to him in the dark as I cleaned him up, thinking that the reality of being a parent is really just this: sponging sick out of your child’s hair at two in the morning.
“I’ll get up with him when he wakes” offered DH, bundling up the soiled sheets and clothes. But, a few hours of fitful sleep later, it was me that the Very Small Boy wanted; it always is when he is ill.

I really didn’t mind getting up with him at quarter past five this morning though – it really is astonishing to be so utterly required by someone. “Come on, Little Man” I said to my Very Small son as I carried him gingerly downstairs. “Let’s change your nappy and get you a drink. Then we can make a start on that enormous pile of laundry…”