Ah Christmas. So exciting, thrilling and magical. Really, a truly wondrous event; little eyes gleaming in amazement at the twinkle lights and the presents stacked temptingly under the tree.
I must admit to being quite excited this year myself, as my eldest is at the age where the magic is truly alive. Christmas through the eyes of a 3 (nearly 4!) year old is something that could warm the centre of even the hardest hearts.
So with joy in our hearts my husband and I took the children to a neighbour’s Christmas Eve gathering and partook in some festive mulled wine. Yum. I love mulled wine. I’m probably a bit obsessed with it to be honest. Ahem. Anyway, when we took the boys home at about 7pm and put them to bed (after sprinkling Reindeer dust outside the front door and checking for Santa numerous times- eeek- so exciting) we set about turning the living room into a Winter Wonderland; a veritable grotto of delight. There were carols playing, mulled wine on the stove (yes more – don’t judge me) and even a log fire crackling away nicely- on the TV – we don’t have a fireplace you see. And so we wrapped presents, sipped our wine, chatted and were genuinely having a lovely time getting everything in order for the next day.
The glow was instantly gone as I jumped up panic stricken. If you’re a parent you’ll know the inexplicable feeling of dread that you get when you hear your child’s cry and know that it’s not a fake attention seeking cry but a cry of utter pain and desolation. What the hell had just happened? Everything was fabulous a minute ago.
We ran into The Beast’s bedroom to find him writhing in agony and so I picked him up out of his cot and……..BLEEEEEEUGH! WHUUUUUUH! WAAAAAAA!
It was like something from ‘The Exorcist’. There was sick dripping from: the curtains; my hair; my pyjamas; my husband’s arm hair!! Without even really having time to process this the writhing began again as we tried to relieve him of his sleeping bag, you know that gorgeous invention that keeps them snuggly at night but in a crisis you can’t get the bloody thing off!
WAAAAAAAAAA! This scream was me by the way as the projectile diarrhoea started to squirt this way and that. We scrambled into the bathroom, whilst stripping off clothes and trying to ensure that the damage to property was minimal.
Christmas Eve culminated in my poor husband standing in the bath with the screaming Beast, whilst I showered off any liquids that decided to appear from the Mount Vesuvius style eruptions wracking the poor thing’s body – liquids from both ends! And so as Christmas day began we were: stone cold sober; knackered; dishevelled; soaking and cuddling a little boy in a towel on the bed. But you know, writing this now and looking back on it all, the only thing I’m seeing is love. There’s no one else in the world that you would do this for and there’s nothing worse than seeing them in pain but as we got him re hydrated and clean again and cuddled him as he fell asleep, love was clearly in our hearts and surely that’s what Christmas is all about?