It was the last day of
our 3-week campervan adventure. I turn to my husband and remark: ‘We haven’t
had a single bout of vomiting!’
He grinned back at me,
likely recalling every other family holiday we’d had since being parents.
I quickly tried to
negate the salient ‘jinx effect’ of the comment with: ‘I’m probably speaking
too soon, but…..’
And yet, the holiday
ended neatly at a resort, illness free. I was smugly content, feeling joyous in
the knowledge that my food handling skills are apparently acceptable after all.
But despite the luxurious surroundings, a longing for home shores (and 43
degree heat….) led us to bring our flights forward a few days.
It wasn’t until 2am
this morning – 6 hours in – that I began to rue the words: ‘The red-eye will be
great, we’ll all just sleep…’
But sleep we did, from
two until a quarter to four, when my son wakes me with: ‘I don’t feel well!’
In the dark, I
couldn’t find the vomit bags, so I was pressing buttons, and shoving random
pieces of plastic at the semi-asleep child telling him to: ‘Be sick in that…no!
Run to the bathroom…no! Here’s a sick bag…..’
Was that an expletive
I heard from the row behind me?
Assisted by he
initially grumpy, but then rather fleet-footed flight attendant, I had it in
hand. But as my attention was diverted, my child closed the open sick bag and
vomited on it like a plate…..what?????
‘Quick, here’s another
one…no, you vomit IN the bag…..!’
With the splatter
pattern fresh in my mind, and no doubt on my clothes, I smoothed the hair of my
precious first born as he slept, oblivious, on my lap. I then counted down the many
minutes until I could have a shower.
