The show must go on

I hadn’t accounted for the ‘guilt-o-meter’ factor when taking the decision to pack spotty kid off to the countryside.

It was a glaring oversight on my part. Afflicted with the chicken ‘spots’; and banished from nursery I’d sent ‘peachy number one,’; looking ever so slightly less peachy to Granny London for a day’s R&R whilst I worked.This was the test to see if he could cope with being sent to Granny countryside for the three days of fresh air whilst we met work commitments and packed up our flat.

The day started well. I was cheered by the fact that little fuss was made when I asked spotty kid to get his things together, gather up bunny (cuddly toy not live animal) and jump in the car. "Are we going to granny London, mummy?" "Yes but I’m not going to be there, will you be ok?" "Yes mummy." Of course , it’s the first rule that we should never believe our children when they say they are ok when faced with the chasm of separation, especially when we add into the mix a dose of the pox.

Mistake number one was phoning two hours into the working day to check spotty kid was ok. "Come and get me mummy, I’m very unwell," he whaled. This was not good. It was as if the volcanic ash had hit … again, and we would be stranded for weeks on either side of the world . Ding, ding – is that the sound of the guilt-o-meter, I can hear? What should I do? Collect him and let my work colleagues down? Don’t collect him and let my child down when he most needed me? Or option number three ask husband to return from office to share childcare responsibility?

It is the perennial burden of mummies across the land to have to negotiate what the best course of action is. We need the skills of a diplomat and the foresight of a crystal-ball-glazer to predict what the best outcome will be. It’s the sliding doors phenomenon. The ongoing dilemma of whether we can just nip into the petrol station and pay the bill whilst leaving the sleeping bubs in the car or whether we can legitimately nip around the supermarket in the full and brazen knowledge that spotty kid is 100% contagious yet in need of milk and bread. The latter dilemma is made worse by the embarrassment and failure of not having freezer provision to get through one week of imprisonment. I’m starting to realise that I would not make it if stranded on a desert island … ok the freezer issue would not apply but could I lay my hands on my sunglasses? This concerns me.

Back to the land of the living and the dilemma of what to do – in the end I settled to pick up spotty child and ask husband to return home- he was owed a zillion hours anyway. This seemed to calm things down leaving us a breather until we had to limp into the storm of packing up the flat and managing the final day of work. Granny London has committed to coming into the bug zone to do childcare for spotty kid from quarantine, allowing husband to return to his beloved office, whilst ‘peachy number two,’ as yet unaffected from the pox has been split up from his brother and dispatched to Granny countryside. He may appreciate a few violent brother-free days anyhow.

It has been a learning curve and I’ve written a note-to-self in my mummy – how to cope book: "Remember the guilt-o-meter applies 100 x when child is sick." Toodle pip until next time when I will be writing my blog from the shiny, new house . That is if I can find my computer.

P.S. Yes he has started itching.