Oh yeah. So much vomiting, from everyone in the flat, except for the adults, and the dog, who have remained mysteriously unscathed. So much late night shrieking, followed by padding little footsteps, through the door, into the living room, onto the only place we have a floor covering, the Turkish rug we hauled back from Kas, where there have been projectile vomits like you wouldn’t have thought possible. Which gets really tiresome, really quick, and you forget to be particularly nice to the kid, the pale, sweaty, shaking kid, and instead you shout STAND STILL DONT WALK THROUGH YOUR VOMIT WHY DIDNT YOU USE A BUCKET GROSS THIS IS AWFUL PAUSE THE TV PLEASE AND PASS ME SOME PLASTIC BAGS REALLY FAST
and then you retch a bit. And you want your mum to come and help you do this thing because it seems unfair that you two are the only adults. Just because you are old, you have to clean up sick. And not even Magic, he of the I Eat Baby Nappies When I Have The Chance school of dog-thought, will come near. And how do you get it out of old Turkish rugs? I tried vinegar and baking soda, because it felt instinctively like the right thing to do, but I am not domestically-inclined in any way and I rubbed it in and then put a towel down and hopped on it for a bit, then thought nothing of it until Mark was searching for the TV remote under the couch right next to the place where the children like to vomit and said he could smell sick. I was like whoa! really? and my eyes went all wide and surprised and then I thought no more of it because the cleaner comes on Wednesdays. Man, I am slovenly and unskilled. And then we thought it was all over. Two weeks into the dual vomit/coughing fever thing, which every single day saw me at home with at least one feverish pale child, failing to do much comforting except for the occasional walk-by pat on the head, because I have an odd intolerance for weakness, even if you can’t help it and you are four, and I thought it was over. And then yesterday we get through the school gates and Otis starts a big coughing fit and then chokes and opens his mouth and a steady stream of weetabix comes out like a totem pole with steam. All over his buggy and wool jacket and I’m wiping it all off with wipes and feeling sick and hoping no one will notice the FILTHY VOM I AM ELBOW DEEP IN. And wishing I could go to a desk, in an office, with a small pot plant and sharpened pencils, with a computer and a short list of jobs to work through, with a little lunch break and perhaps some office banter (maybe a tiny email flirtation with someone down the hall) and then I would not only get paid, but I would be clean and germless.
So, anyway, bad news on the fringe-front. After spending a quarter of a million pounds at Aveda, and bleaching my baby regrowth and being taught how to blowdry it back into a quiff, and gluing it there with mousse, two people have asked me why I have cut the world’s finest fringe into my hair. One of them said she loved what I had done with it – it looked different somehow – I thought she was referring to the cut and colour but then she said my new fringe looked lovely.
I WOULD NEVER DO THIS ON PURPOSE:
It just grew that way after falling out a LOT, and I am doomed to look like a cheap, old imitation of Carly Binding from Truebliss. My beloved hairstylist from Aveda assures me that when it grows back more, my hair shall fall lushly like a many-follicled Rapunzel, though he puts mascara on his beard, so who knows if he is telling me the truth.
And then, lastly, on Sunday, Kerry and I ran in a 10k race and we are supremely awesome, getting in at 58:30 and only weeing ourselves the tiniest bit. We both said that our wombs were falling out, and would need swift readjustment in the loos, but the complimentary flapjacks were lovely and Mark and the kids came to watch just as we hit the finish line and my eyes watered with the love of it all. Here we are:
Kerry is in the white shirt, though she said she’s quite happy to be that other girl, as am I. Shoutout to that other girl with raven hair and no accidental fringe whatsoever. It was fun, and I felt justified to buy a ready-made moussaka that evening, owing to my runner’s fatigue and displaced womb.
Sorry for the vomit talk.