Parenting offers such diverse experiences many of which I would love to wrap up in ribbon and place gently in a box full of tissues and preserve forever.
Like when the first time the twins signed I love you before they could speak. Or when BB first held up her arms to me calling my name silently through big, unblinking eyes.
Of course there are also experiences that one would just rather flush away from one’s brain.
Like the time twin boy asked the big boned lady selling bags of candies at the theatre if she was so fat because she ate all of the sweets. Or the time twin girl refused to acknowledge me in Tesco’s leading to rather embarrassing questions from other mothers as to whom was her true parent.
And yesterday conjured up an experience that one simply doesn’t read about in parenting magazines…
The sun was glaringly hot as myself and BB trotted to collect the twins from school. The car was like an oven and consequently smelt like a dustbin as the heat melted all the raisins, crisps, and baby wipes into one congealed steaming mess.
Still upon collecting the bigger two from school I thought it wise to prolong the humid, horrid car journey by stopping for petrol on the way home.
Twin girl greeted me with her usual enthusiasm at the school gate, knocking me over with a hug and the piling my arms high with pictures, lunch boxes, book bags et al. Twin boy came to me more solemnly with a slight frown pulling at his face. When I enquired what was wrong as we neared the car he revealed that his head was sore ‘like my tummy when it hurts after cake but in my head mummy.’
Using my parental degree in medicine I quickly surmised he had a headache and prescribed medicine and a lay down in a darkened room once we returned home; both things which are widely known to help cure a headache.
Do you know what doesn’t help cure a headache? A hot car that is slowly suffocating itself through violent odours.
Once we were secured in the death mobile, twin boy remarked the smell and the heat of the car made his head hurt more and began to weep.
Twin girl didn’t want to be left out of the mix and declared;
“Mummy, my head hurts too.”
I replied, “don’t be silly Molly, it doesn’t.”
To which twin girl dramatically clutched at her chest and declared with a heaving sob;
“You’re right mummy, it doesn’t, its my heart, oh how my heart hurts, ow, ow, ow.”
I smirked to myself in the front, thinking of the top end nursing home I would be put in by twin girl once she has made it big with her exceptional acting skills.
As the performance went on twin boy continued to weep and wail in his seat whilst furiously rubbing his skull.
Patience is not a trait of mine and I have very little, and to be honest as he wailed and twin girl continued to clutch at her bosom, that little bit ran out. So I yelled at the sick kid to stop moaning and to be quiet.
Sad eyes greeted me in the rear view mirror, they were framed by two little hands holding up a poorly head. He swallowed back a tear, opened his mouth to reply and….
…Vommitted all over the car; twice.
Imagine how that smelt?
Let this be a lesson learnt. Don’t yell at sick kids, God will find a way to punish you.