Hindsight Page 17

  Ethan races down the hall, he always loves to look at Cal’s dirty nappies and then say how disgusting it is. Strange kid. Will is wise enough to remain at the kitchen table, scoffing three more pieces of toast.

  “Don’t come in here!” I warn him. “You’ll be mentally scarred for life.”

  “Pardon?” he asks as he comes into the room. His eyes follow the poo splatters from one side of the room to the other. His mouth is incapable of closing. “Oh yuk! What happened?”

  “Cal has an upset tummy. You go and finish your breakfast while we go for a shower, OK?”

  “But Mum…”

  “Not now Eth. There’s a poo emergency happening here.” We skeddaddle into the bathroom and dive for the shower. Lucy, beautiful nanny, where are you now?

  The shower is usually a place of peace for me, hot water running over my body, washing away the day. Sometimes it’s possible to see my worries swirling down the drain and out of my life. But this morning, brown chunks are floating in the pooling water and poo fumes, released by the steam, are drifting upwards and lodging like cement in my nasal cavity and throat. Not very Zen.

  Thankful when the cleansing ritual is over, we move into my room and I put on fresh clothes and then into Cal’s room to find something that has minimal poo flecks on it.

  “Mum?” Will calls out from the lounge room.

  “Yes?”

  “Um, you should come here.”

  “Why?”

  “You should just come here, something’s wrong with John.”

  “Whaaaat?” This is Lily’s kid, he cannot be handed back broken. But something is definitely wrong with him, because he’s wearing huge red welts and is scratching like mad.

  Jesus Christ, what the hell’s happening? Trying not to panic, I move towards him at the speed of light.

  “John, are you alright sweetie?” He’s breaking out in more welts and blotches in front of me. Panic starts to rise, my heart rate increasing because, with my huge mothering experience, I don’t know what to do.

  “I feel really itchy and hot, Aunty Jules.”

  More red welts appear on his skin. Oh my God, Is he having an anaphylactic reaction? My stomach churns and anxiety sweat breaks out.

  “Can you breathe properly, John?” I ask, feeling for his pulse.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  His pulse seems alright, perhaps a bit fast, and his face, apart from all the redness, is pale. What if this is really serious, what if he collapses or stops breathing? No, that’s not a productive thought. Calm down, settle, think. Control the situation, don’t let it control you.

  “OK, I’ll just ring your…” Oh shit! We don’t have a phone.

  “Mum, he’s allergic to strawberries. They make him look like this,” Ethan says.

  “What? Strawberries?”

  “Yes, you gave him strawberry jam on his toast.”

  Even though it’s only an hour ago, a lot’s happened in that time and my mind is racing. I made the toast, spread it with butter and….strawberry jam. Shiiiiit!

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Ethan?”

  “I tried but you kept telling me to eat my breakfast.”

  Smug Mummy is gone now, her arse well and truly kicked. I kept cutting him off from whatever it was he was trying to tell me, which was apparently along the lines of ‘Mum, John’s allergic to strawberries, give him honey instead.’

  “Is this true, John? Do strawberries make you sick, honey?”

  “Yes,” he says before he bursts into tears.

  “Oh John…” I say, kneeling down and holding him close to me, “I’m so sorry sweetie. This is all my fault, you aren’t in trouble. Please don’t cry. What usually happens after you eat strawberries, does anything else happen to you?”

  He scratches himself and then heaves up most of his toast and milk all over my clean dress and hair. It runs down my back and chest simultaneously, in a warm trail. It’s pretty chunky. Another person who doesn’t chew his toast very well, judging by the size of the crusts adhered to my arms. John bursts into tears again.

  “I’m sorry Aunty Jules.”

  “Oh, sweetie, it’s OK, you just sit down for a minute,” I say.

  It’s time to change into yet another outfit; this is a specific example of why a woman needs more than ten outfits in her wardrobe. It’s not even nine in the morning and already I’m on my second change of clothes.

  “OK, let’s find something for the itch and then I’ll take you to the doctor after we drop the kids off at school, OK?” Or should I take everyone to the doctors and get John looked at first and then take the others to school? Oh shit. I just don’t know what to do. That’s why we have a nanny in my real life. Gran will know.

  “Mum, I’ll take the kids to school. You dab this on John and then take him to the doctors, OK?” Will says, handing me a bottle of Calamine lotion and a cotton ball. He then rounds up Ethan and Rosie, packs their bags and puts on their shoes as though he is the adult in the house. Which apparently he is, because my behaviour is that of a blithering idiot.

  Minutes later, Will re-enters the room, takes the bottle and cotton out of my hands, kneels down and begins dabbing John because for some reason, my body won’t move. It appears that panic has taken over.

  “How’s that John, is it better?” he asks.

  “It doesn’t itch so much now, thanks Dr. Will.”

  Will smiles and for a moment my eyes blur over. A tear squeezes out and runs down my cheek. He’s incredible, this son of mine.

  Will takes Ethan and Rosie to school while John, Cal and myself hop on a tram to St Vincent’s Hospital. Apparently there is a doctor’s surgery nearby, but it’s doubtful that he would be able to treat John as well. Best to be sure.

  By the time the doctor sees us Cal’s tantruming resembles a werewolf on a full moon, complete with howling and full-body thrashing. So, against my better judgment, I let him out of the pram but trying to contain him in this small area is impossible and my methods of distraction are not good. At least the death stare rate from the other patients has dropped since Cal ceased his ear-piercing rant.

  The doctor examines John and turns to explain everything to me. I put Cal back in the pram so that the doctor has my full attention.

  “John has had an allergic reaction to strawberries; you fed him strawberry jam, Mrs Taylor, is that right?”

  “Ummm, yes. I didn’t know that he had an allergy.”

  “Alright, well, no point arguing about it now. The harm’s already been done,” he says sternly, looking over his glasses at me. What a bedside manner. Did he attend ‘Grumps R Us’ Medical School?

  “We’ve given John some antihistamines, which will reduce the reaction considerably. He also has some cream that will need to be applied four times a day until the welts are gone. It’s all in here,” he says handing over a small brown paper bag.

  “Thank you Doctor. I had forgotten…”, but he just stares at me and cuts me off as he talks to John again.

  “John…” the doctor says, “next time she gives you anything to eat or drink, make sure it doesn’t have strawberries in it, OK?” as he ruffles John’s hair and gives him a green lollypop. John nods.

  “I’m so sorry, John. Your allergy slipped my mind. Let’s go home and you can watch some TV, OK?”

  “OK. Aunty Jules?” he asks.

  “Yes, sweetie?”

  “Where’s Cal gone?”

  “He’s in his pram, nice and safe.” I say, gesturing to the pram behind me but not turning around to look at it.

  “No, he’s not.”

  Instantly, a thousand lead-winged butterflies are performing kamikaze stunts in the pit of my stomach. I spin around to see that the pram is empty and my heart rate triples.

  “Callum! Callum!” I cry. “Help, I’ve lost my baby!” My voice gets louder until nurses are rushing towards me. My arms flap, like in the chicken dance, as the panic rises.

  A nurse comes running over to me. “What’s wrong d
ear? Are you alright?”

  “No, I’m not. My baby was in the pram and now he’s gone. Oh God, he could be anywhere.” Then I remember how busy the road is out the front of the hospital, could he have made it out there already? My God! There are cars out there, and trams, and God knows what.

  My entire body trembles at the thought of something happening to Cal.

  “It’s alright love, we’ll find him.”

  “He’s two, blonde hair, brown eyes, huge smile.” The words spit out like machine gun fire.

  “What is he wearing?” she asks.

  What is he wearing? My mind goes blank.

  “What colour is his top, his pants?”

  “He’s wearing clothes that weren’t covered in poo, he made a mess in his bedroom this morning and….I…had to…” Stuttering, on the brink of hysteria, my voice cracks.

  All these other Mums can give accurate descriptions of what their child was dressed in, but not me. No, too busy finding clean clothes for myself and cursing the mess he made.

  “He had a dark blue top and light brown pants with brown sandals,” says John.

  “Is that correct?” asks the nurse.

  “Um, yes, yes it is.” A visual floats through my mind of the only clean clothes available this morning. “Yes, John’s right, that’s what he was wearing.”

  “Alright, sit tight. It will be OK.”

  She goes over to the desk and picks up her phone. She talks to someone and then an announcement comes over the PA system.

  “Attention please, we have a small child who is lost…” She continues to describe him. Meanwhile, my heart rate is a blip off ventricular fibrillation and climbs for every minute he’s gone. Horrible images run around inside my head like a slideshow. All the possibilities of what could happen to my beautiful little man. Tears drip onto my dress.

  “Here he is. We’ve got him!” yells out the nurse as she surges towards me, Cal in her arms.

  I start to breathe again; huge breaths in an attempt to slow my heart rate down. My arms stretch out to take him but the nurse holding Cal calls out:

  “Beth, a little help over here,” she yells out to another nurse, who comes running over to catch me and pour me into the chair.

  “It’s OK dear, you had a terrible shock, that’s all. Just breathe deeply, it will pass,” she says, as she pushes my head in-between my knees.

  After a short while my breathing is again under control.

  “Are you alright, dear?”

  “Yes, thank you. He was in the pram…I thought he was strapped in…” Now the words are tripping out, falling over themselves.

  “It happens all the time here. We’re always on the lookout for children who decide to go walkabout by themselves. Don’t feel bad, he’s alright now.” Her smile is kind and makes me feel like less of an idiot.

  “Muuuum,” Cal says, launching into my arms, squeezing me tight.

  “Cal, you scared the life out of Mum. Thank you so much, really, thank you, thank you.” Tears of relief wash over me.

  “It’s our pleasure, love. Just take it easy for a while, OK? Maybe do those straps up a little tighter. You’ve got a Houdini there,” she laughs, pinching his cheek.

  John’s doctor walks past us again. “You found him then?” he asks pointing to Cal. “Seems like you’ve had a rough start to your day, Mrs Taylor. I hope it improves for you.”

  “Me too.”

  The rest of the day is spent washing linen, nappies and clothes. Elbow-deep in warm shit soup as I scrub the bejesus out of each item before washing it in my prehistoric machine, lugging it out of the water sopping wet and taming it into the wringer.

  My arms are on fire, literally, there is smoke coming off my biceps and triceps. My hamstrings are stretched so tightly they are about to ping like rubber bands and fly across the room, my lower back didn’t ache this much during both labours put together, and my neck is hooked like a swan’s. Added to that is the claw that now replaces my hand, a result of winding that bloody wringer constantly and the permanent erosion of my nasal passage from inhaling warm poo fumes all day.

  Sweat runs down between my shoulderblades, the backs of my legs and my chest, mixing with the vomit stains from John. It’s as though I’ve run a marathon and it is safe to say that the stench in this laundry is not emanating solely from the shit soup sitting in the concrete trough, which has grated most of the flesh off my knuckles.

  Will arrives home with Ethan and Rosie and then leaves again for footy practice while the kids play in the backyard. John has recovered well and is now only slightly blotchy, more of a marbled effect than solid colour.

  “Aunty Jules, my eyes hurt,” says Rosie, rubbing her eyes.

  “Let’s have a look, sweetie.”

  Yellow gunge is accumulating in the corner of her eye, instantly taking me back to high school days where the sharing of makeup resulted in a conjunctivitis epidemic. Great.

  Gran knocks on the door and comes in, “Hello Juliette, my love. You didn’t come up for lunch today, is everything alright?” she asks sniffing the air. “Disinfectant, vomit and poo, do we have a sick house today?”

  “Sort of.” I fill her in on the day’s events and she throws her head back in a belly laugh.

  “Must be in the genes, I remember your Mum playing with her nappy too. Made a God-awful mess she did. Just thinking about it makes me feel ill. Lily rang, she won’t be finishing until around eight. Now, what can I do to help you, love?”

  “If you could bathe Cal that would be great, thanks Gran.”

  “Right, will do,” she says, chasing Cal around the house as he giggles and squeals with delight until she catches him, throws him up in the air and blows raspberries on his bare tummy. There’s lots of singing and laughing emanating from the bathroom and ten minutes later she emerges with a freshly laundered, dressed child.

  She puts the tuna casserole in the oven and cooks some rice, bathes Rosie’s eyes in saltwater and makes lunches for tomorrow before heading home. How wonderful is she? My own fairy godmother.

  Chris arrives around six and heads for the shower; Will follows suit shortly afterwards. He smells even worse than me, all sweaty and muddy from footy training with clumps of grass attached to his top. More washing. Yay.

  “Mum, what’s for dinner? I’m starving,” Will asks.

  “Three horses, two cows and five chickens,” I answer.

  “Great, that should just about do it,” he says seriously before breaking into his smile. He wolfs down his tuna and rice as though he’s never eaten before. Then he eats two sandwiches and two bowls of Weetbix, one apple and one banana. It’s so unfair that he can eat so much yet remain thinner than a wafer.

  After dinner Ethan complains of feeling unwell again, so I put him to bed a bit earlier than usual. We put Rosie to bed in our room and John in Ethan and Will’s room, until Lily arrives to collect them. Shortly afterwards there is a shriek from Ethan’s room followed by a curdling groan. Chris and I dive in there, only to be greeted by a vomit-covered John and a heaving, retching Ethan who has not only thrown up all over John, but over his blankets and himself as well, great globs of regurgitated tuna and rice sitting in the folds of his green blanket. More washing, double yay.

  “Uncle Chris, Ethan chundered on me,” John says, holding up his hands, covered in chuck.

  “He sure did, John,” Chris sniggers. “Let’s get you two in the shower while Aunty Jules strips your beds and re-makes them.”

  No, sorry, but that’s not possible right now. It will clash with the time I have scheduled to disintegrate, both mentally and physically.

  “Yes, I’ll get right on to it,” I say. Mrs O’Shane.

  Soon Lily is knocking quietly on the door. She looks as though she’s worked a thirty-hour day.

  “Mmmm, the smell of tuna and… disinfectant?” she says.

  “You wouldn’t believe how much cleaning I’ve done today.” I tell her about everyone’s bodily functions and she touches me on th
e arm and says, “Oh Jules. You poor honey. I’m so sorry I’ve been such a burden to you today.”

  “Lily, you are certainly not a burden. Rosie and John were perfect. They were no effort at all. It was my fault that John had the allergic reaction, not his. “

  “Thanks, Jules, you really are just the best friend I could ever ask for. Now, let me get those children and get out of your vomit-encrusted hair; you must want to have a shower and bottle of sherry,” she smiles.

  “No, I’m fine. Sit down. You probably haven’t eaten all day either. Leaning over a trough of poo water and scrubbing it off the walls is an excellent appetite suppressant. I’ll make us some dinner and a pot of tea and we can both relax.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll make the tea.”

  So we both set about working in the kitchen, chatting away about the events of the day and before long we are both in hysterics at the utter ridiculousness of it all. Poo explosions, finger painting, strawberry allergy, escapee kid at the hospital, conjunctivitis and then Ethan throwing up all over himself and John.

  It feels good to laugh about it. The tension and anxiety of the day run out of me as we share a meal and a good laugh, not something that is on my agenda too often. Laughing and relaxing is a distant memory for me. My girl crush on Lily continues. Just seeing her made me feel better because I knew she would understand about today, being a mum as well. Did that just come out of my mouth?

  After dinner Lily gets ready to go home. She picks up John and Chris carries Rosie over to Lily’s house where everyone is ready for a good night’s sleep. It’s been a long, long, long day.

  “How are you feeling, love?” Chris asks.

  “Not very sexy if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “No, I can tell. You still smell a bit too. You may need to wash the sheets tomorrow.”

  “Yes, more washing would be wonderful, just didn’t quite get enough of it today.”

  My greatest desire in life right now is to get in the shower and wash off the poo, sweat, vomit, and conjunctivitis from today. I am a human Petrie dish.