centre of the universe - the dreaming: Splashback

09/13/2005: "Splashback" The dinner was nice until those ubiquitous words at midnight: "Mama, my tummy hurts." With the instinct of a woman who vaguely remembers the sensation herself, she held a bucket under the youngster's chin as he sat on the toilet, convinced the problem was a particularly stubborn poop. As if on cue, the youngster filled the bucket with the flotsam of the evening's supper.

Unpredictably, the youngster was not afraid or in tears, perhaps because of the mother's reassurances, perhaps because the youngster wasn't quite entirely awake yet. At any rate, she sat the kid down on a stool, covered him with a blanket, and they sang quiet songs together until they were both sure the episode had passed. She made sure the boy had plenty of cool water to drink, and she tucked him back in to bed, apologising because this meant he'd have to miss school.

An hour later, as she was walking down the hall to go to bed herself, she sees her boy lean over the bed and aim for the bucket. To her amazement, he hits the bucket. She kneels in front of the bed, holds the bucket up for him, and turns on the light. She rubs his back, because these heaves sound particularly painful. They spend the next hour in the bathroom, making sure "it's all out now".

The heaves don't come until three hours later, and by this time, the boy's stomach is empty and his resolve is weakening. "I don't want to throw up anymore," he says, "so I think I'll just go back to sleep. Will you phone my teacher and tell her I'm too sick for school tomorrow?"

"I will," she says, "but maybe not at three in the morning. Maybe I'll wait until the sun comes up."

"Okay," her boy answers, "as long as she knows I'm not missing school because I'm sitting around watching commercials or something."

"I'll tell her you said that. Goodnight, love."

"Goodnight, Mama. Thank you for helping me not be so scared."

"You're welcome, my boy. You're very brave."

"Hey Daddy?"

"Yes, son?" asks the bleary-eyed man standing in the doorway.

"I think Mama is the smartest person in this house."

"Updates" "Irate"

3 Comments

Ooblik , on Tuesday, 13th September:

Any idea which flavour of bug it is?

cenobyte , on Tuesday, 13th September:

I think it's either salmonella or some other "I got it from shrimp at Red Lobster" food poisoning. He seems to be fine this morning, but is rather enjoying carrying a puke bucket around everywhere. He's not eating much, but I've managed to get some crackers into him.

Churchy LaFemme , on Tuesday, 13th September:

The reader sighed and took a more resolute grip on hir mouse. Not only another in a long line of tales relaying domestic pathos, but one which once again featured childhood illness. A dastardly state of affairs to be sure, and one whose forebearance and skilled, compassionate treatment need be nought but lauded. Pip, pip, cenobyte. Hurrah, C. Proton.

Still, the reader realised, in hir heart of hearts, s/he longed for the days of diatribe on non-digestive issues like commanism, elliptropy, or Paradigms Lost.

And then s/he felt ashamed. And what might her shame-based behaviour be? More chocolate. Sorry.

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