Chippie is covered in spots. Teensy little red spots.
There was a notice at childcare about a case of hand, foot and mouth disease, but he’s had it before and it’s not looking like he’s showing any of those particular symptoms.
As opposed to, of course, Foot In Mouth Disease, which he will undoubtably inherit from his parents. He is already showing signs …
He spent the morning having a screaming, horrible, crying at the drop of a hat couple of hours. Revolting, really.
Grumpy took him to gymnastics anyway, where he performed brilliantly and cooperated fabulously. Meanwhile, I was organising a doctors appointment for him, because you never can tell.
Off we go, whre I sit in the waiting room, exhausted, flat and devoid of energy, as he plays and chats and smiles. We’re called in and he’s checked over. He had no temp, and he hasn’t exhibited one. Well, obviously he had a temperature, or he’d be dead, and even then he’d give a reading of a somewhat cold temperature. No raised temperature.
The diagnosis was that he may or may not have a virus, highly unlikelyit is Hand, Foot & Mouth, or even a virus. Possibly some skin thing or a reaction to something. It might be possible that he could be contagious.
Effectively, we have no frigging idea. So we went home, with a scribbled note about a product we could put in the bath, which would help the spots if they were the sort of spots that were cured by such bath product, but not damage his skin if, indeed, it is not that sort of spot and is a spot fuelled by something like a virus … or something else.
As I trawled the chemists looking for said product, he got bored and started doing laps around the aisles of the third pharmacy we visited. Then he vanished entirely and went quiet.
I did that thing where you don’t know if you should also run around like a headless chook, looking for him, and missing him as you both do laps around the same set of shelving, resulting in it remaining constantly between you and preventing each of you from seeing each other.
The alternative was to stay in the one spot, where he’d last seen you, and call for him, hoping you don’t sound like a panicked fishwife.
The upshot of all that was I knew he wasn’t “sick” sick.
He eventually showed, argued with me when I said “that’s not funny!” and had every other customer laughing at his “It is funny!” response and commenting on his “oh, such gorgeous curls!”
I can’t find what I’m after anyway, so we head home and perform the usual mid-afternoon activities, such as walking to school to collect big brothers, come home and make something up for dinner.
After which I attempt to get some much needed work done and not be forced to watch teh 87th repeat of an episode of The Simpsons. Chippie was also cleared bored with this, and came into my office, jumped around, thumped, climbed over me, my chair and my head, pulled on my neck and made me watch him jump some more.
I gave up. Besides, my neck was starting to hurt and a hot, relaxing bath was in order.
I turned on the taps, added some essential oils, eased myself in, and quickly curled myself up into a ball, letting out a short, sharp scream as Chippie climbed in and wee-ed on my legs.
That sorted, the bath filled, the pre-schooler happy playing with a train over in the corner, I slide down the bath, dissolving almost, till my shoulders are under and the hot water gently caresses my stiff neck.
I have developed the knack to be able to tune out, depsite another being crawling around the bath with me.
I close my eyes.
I breathe deeply through my nose.
I intend to breathe out through my mouth.
Instead, a warmth spreads over my face, a searing pain works its way up my nostrils and down the back of my throat, causing me to cough and splutter.
Chippie had chosen my moment of calm breathing to tip a watering can full of water over my face.
I do declare the moment over, climb out, don my pyjamas (that I’d just removed and dumped on the heating vent in the bathroom :)) and demand everyone Go To BED!
They don’t … but the process is under way …