Shall I call an ambulance?

Godzilla, after consuming a sizeable meal, watching some TV and running around like an idiot for a bit (a standard, post school routine) informed me at bedtime that he was “a bit sick” and his “head was hot”.

The tried and true, generations old, infallable Mum’s Hand On Forehead told me he was perfectly ok.

Also, the fact he was being a bit dramatic gave me a clue.

I sent him to bed … because, um, when you’re sick and it’s bedtime, would that not be the place to go? I know it’s where I like to be.

He was clearly worse this morning. Poor little thing.

I think he was near death. Well, at least that’s what he was telling me. That he could eat a huge bowl of breakfast and only occasionally remember to shudder and shivver when I came near him and could run around he house like a lunatic, but only intermittently and only when I was in eye-shot. He is totally oblivious to the whole “within ear-shot” thing, however, nor is he able to, most mornings, keep his voice to a socially acceptable level.

He was also fully capable of repeatedly advising me of his near-death-like state, followed by a rather loud, vehement and verging-on-tantrummy “I’ll just come straight home from school if you take me there!” after I merely suggested he go to school and see how he goes and if he’s really feeling crap then I’ll come get him.

Ultimately, he forced me to say “Sick children do not annoy their parents!” and suggeted he put his shoes on and grab his bag.

As it turns out,

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