Laws of Motherhood

Victoria’s Laws of Motherhood: When one child falls ill the rest will follow like dominoes ending with you at the least convenient time.

The word projectile for me conjures something like a dart or a bullet with a specific target in mind. After some research via Google I discovered the following, firstly a projectile is “a body projected by external force and continuing in motion by its own inertia” or “capable of being or designed to be hurled forwards”.

Neither of which quite summed up my experience over the last 24 hours. So I ventured further into the realms of cyberspace where the universal unconsciousness stores its useless trivia. Projectile vomiting was first coined in 1862 to describe, “vomiting that is sudden and so vigorous that the vomitus is forcefully projected to a distance”.

This was more on the mark, but like many academic and medical definitions lacking somewhat in real life application. Somewhere around 22:30 last night Small boy aged 6 began vomitus projectus. By 04:00 I had 3 duvets in the washing machine, had changed clothes 4 times and had towels covering every inch of floor between the bedroom and the loo.

Once informed that my presence was required in the hallowed halls of corporate life I had a mild breakdown. The upshot of which was a tearful phone call to my mother. Sometimes, a girl just needs her mother. This was one of those times. As a result of her love for me she rushed her dogs to the kennel and came to my rescue, taking Small boy aged 6 to the doctor with whom I am considering having a standard daily appointment.

I staggered half dead into work to be greeted by a crisis of mammoth proportions precipitated by my client’s bi-polar approach to marketing and communications. It was of those Victorian swooning moments when the blood drains from your head and down your body through your toes into a pool on the floor. So much for my early night tonight or indeed for the remaining 12 days of life as I know it.

By the way, the reason my mother’s dogs were given precedent was this: My mother is going away tomorrow and Angus, her dog, had to have one last play date with his best friend in the park. The best friend is not, like the adage goes, my mother, but rather another dog to which he has taken a penchant. Angus pines without his play date and will make the kennel owner’s life a living hell unless he is pacified first.

Angus steals teddy bears from little girls in the park. His shaggy blonde good looks belie his narcissism and an almost terrifying hatred of anything that detracts attention away from him. He has eaten about 5 cellphones out of jealousy that my mother would dare to talk to someone other than him and most recently put her in hospital by breaking her leg. Angus is not my favourite canine. He is way too clever for his own good, hence why I have lovable but very stupid dogs called Charlie and Billy Bob.

Thank the Goddess that my husband is returning home this evening necessitating a rush to the train station for collection at some point. I can practically guarantee that all his offspring will have miraculously recovered and he’ll look at my haggard face and wonder what all the fuss was about.

Ah! Must mention fabulous compliment from garage owner when buying smokes. He asked for my ID. I could have kissed him senseless (had he been younger and resembled Johnny Depp).