It was almost 3pm (just before school pick up time) when the dreaded gastro bug came a’knocking on my back door, so to speak.
After spending the last week with one or other of my children unwell with the same thing, I had been expecting him. And yes, please note that I said ‘him.’ Anything capable of giving you the shits to that degree must surely be male, no?
I had been feeling a bit lethargic all day but had put it down to the crappy change in the Melbourne weather. It was a cold, wet, miserable day of the kind that doesn’t really inspire you to do much except keep warm indoors. But, on reflection, the fact that I had only had one coffee all day, not my usual 347, probably should have alerted me to the fact that all was not well in intestinal-ville.
At 3.10pm, I sat at the back of the assembly hall at school thankful that the children’s woeful tones of ‘Australia Fair,’ drowned out the gurgling groans of my stomach and I mentally noted the nearest exit incase of an emergency. If worst came to worst, I realised, I may very well come to regret my choice of underwear.
By 3.30pm, as The Woo ran out of his classroom with the exhilaration that children feel at the end of a school day, I was well on my way to an Olympic gold-medal for butt-clenching, and feeling more exhausted than exhilarated.
With an evening meal to prepare, and three small children to wrangle until Hubbster returned home, I knew that the worst was yet to come.
And boy did it get worse. A whole lot worse infact.
By 4pm I had enlisted the help of the iPad, the TV, my iPhone, ANYTHING that would occupy the children and distract them from trying to murder one another, while I gave in to the gastro bug’s incessant knocking an opened up the door.
At 4.30pm the toilet and I were still caught in a passionate embrace. In fact I thought I may never be able to let it go, and called to the children to bring me the phone. I needed back-up.
I phoned Hubbster and between wretching and hideous stomach pains, I explained that I was feeling very unwell and would appreciate it if he could hot-foot it home from work (whilst sticking to the speed limit, of course.)
And the man who on our wedding day, (amongst other things) promised to love me in sickness and in health said, “Oh! But I’m supposed to be meeting the guys at 5 o’clock for a parma and a pot.”
[It was around this time that I realised that tapping the ‘end call’ button on the phone with my finger was far less gratifying than slamming down a receiver dramatically with gusto, and I felt a pang of nostalgia. Or was that more diarrhea?]
Ten minutes later the phone rang, and Hubbster’s voice asked meekly on the other end of the phone “Did you hang up on me?”
“Yes!” I croaked, still perched on my throne.
Insert awkward silence.
“Oh, okay.” Hubbster said as the penny finally dropped.
Realising that I was too sick to even shout, swear or yell at him he replied, “I’m on my way home hun.”
So, tell me…Is this a typical male response? Do you have to be on death’s door for your husband/partner to give you any sympathy /help when you are sick? Do you have to put your big girl panties on and get on with it?
I am linking up with the fabulous Jess for IBOT (I blog on Tuesdays)… Feel free to pop along and se who else is blogging today! 😉