Friday 31 May 2013


[No, that is not the King]

The King and I are housebound as he has the pox. No, not the small, the chicken variety (thank god). The problem is, at the moment, he has no idea he is sick. So this means that I am trapped indoors with a child that may look a tad funny (he keeps looking at the spots exclaiming, ‘what’s that?!!’), but is operating on all cylinders. Let me assure you, it is challenging at best.

So far, we have cleaned everything there is to clean, including his pram, which we gave a bath outside with a full range of sponges and scrub brushes (I figured we may as prolong this activity as long as possible). He of course thought this was genius and began washing anything else he could see fit to wash: the plants, the patio floor, his sand table, and the fence. If it sat still, he was going to scrub it. He even tried to scrub-brush a pigeon that was foolhardy enough to fly into our yard. The best part of course was his uniform of tank top, underwear and rubber green boots. As you do.

Then he demanded we do some exercise. There is a website I go to that has a variety of workouts on it and to no one’s surprise, the King has turned out to be a wickedly (and annoyingly ruthless) trainer. He scolds me if I don’t follow along exactly, he tells me to put my shoes on, take them off, pick up the dumbbell, put it down, lift my leg etc. If I don’t mirror the instructor’s movements to a tee I’m going to hear about it. And of course, when I’m exhausted and want to stop, he reminds me, as only he can, that it’s far from over. ‘Get up, Mama!! Exercise.’ Sometimes he even climbs onto my back just to make the push up that much harder. I'm telling you, he could make serious money in Hollywood on the training circuit.

Of course, just when I think the pox may be taking hold and he might want to curl up and watch a movie, he decides that he wants to dance to ‘Usic,’ as he calls it. So as if the workout wasn’t enough, I now have to hold his hand (and that of his stuffed elephant) and dance around the room, often carrying him and swinging him in circles until I think I may puke. I’m telling you, being sick is utterly exhausting. Not that I want him to feel badly of course, one just always assumes that illness begets a changing of gears. And in boy toddler-rearing any slowing down of the engines is a very welcomed thing.

The other hard part about chicken pox is despite the fact that your child may feel good, his outer appearance scares the bejeezuz out of people. So even if you want to sneak outdoors for some fresh air and a quick nip to the shops, people single you out like you're a leper. Even though, most parents I know want their child to catch it to get it over with. There is a pocket of us that literally call one another when a child comes down with it, so the rest of us can scurry over and make our kid hug them until they catch it. It’s sadistic, yes, but trust me, a mild case at 3 years old beats a bad case at 21…then again, by 21, I’m sure the King will be well adept at slothing on the sofa and watching a movie with a bowl of popcorn. And of course just to be ironic (and annoying) I will be on the other side of him demanding that we get up and dance like lunatics.

Happy Friday all. 

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