Kiddie Curve Ball


I’m thinking of doing a PhD. No, seriously! A PhD entitled “How Kids Know Exactly When to Throw the Curve Ball” with a subtitle “And how they know the exact best way to throw it.” It is an area entirely worthy of study, I feel, because being armed with the knowledge of the nature of these balls, how they are likely to appear and when (ie: when you least need them) is surely better than being completely blindsided every time. Surely.

As per my last post, I have been suffering motherhood amnesia this last week and I managed to organise myself and the family down to a minute-by-minute schedule that was, like my military operation, fool-proof. Fool-proof, yes, but not Lion-proof.

I was putting the finishing touches on my full-day “Life in The Zone” program for a group of 50 Yr10 girls when I heard a wail from the garage. The Lion was out there helping Daddy move a couple of boxes of my book (Wobbles – An Olympic Story, cracking read, buy one, etc) into my car. Something had clearly gone astray and I guessed it was probably that Daddy had pinched the keys from The Lion Who Holds All Keys. But soon the sobbing little man, clinging to his Daddy appeared in the doorway and explained “Boomp! Ouch…” and pointed to his head. The big tears always get me, so I set aside the keyboard and sat him on my lap, koala style.

There he stayed for a lot longer than he usually would, still whimpering. He asked about what was to happen the next day, “Mummy bye-bye. Mummy Back?” and I knew he was nervous. He’d been feeling the mounting tension as well. 15 minutes into our cuddle and conversation session he shoved his hands down the front of my top: “Hand cold” and began to shudder a little. It’s cold at 5.30 at this time of year…

Then he whined. And bubbled. And exploded all down my front. Three times. I should qualify this event with the fact that The Loin has vomited ONCE in his LIFE! I quietly and internally had a meltdown and hollered for Mr D. The gag-factor was emense as it oozed down my cleavage and plopped on the floor. LL looked horrified. “Since when does food come up?” his eyes pleaded.

Concussion?? Sunday night = call GP Access. Fever (39.5) = unlikely concussion, but not sure = trip to hospital for Mr D and Little Lion. The babysitters, having arrived at the peak of the drama, ready to stay the night to take over responsibility for LL at 5.30 the next morning, paced. I bedded crying baby Blossom, I waited for news and I concocted every acrobatic adjustment of The Plan that might allow me to go to Sydney, present said program and still care for my potentially very unwell little boy. Mr D was doing the same, a monstrous week scheduled at work, a new bloke starting under his supervision the next day and a million-gazillion contractors requiring instructions… Little Lion could not have done any better with his curve ball.

So, the night that was to be smooth, early and stress-free was precisely the opposite. When Mr D and LL finally came home from hospital with the concussion all clear and the consensus from medicos that it was a nasty coincidence of head knock and viral invasion, I fell into bed feeling under-prepared and rattled. Mr D rang every person he had in programmed into his phone (at the civil hour of 10pm on a Sunday) to let them know that, depending on the flow of Lion vomit, he may or may not be appearing at work to get his Hellish Week of Projects underway and that all contractors should Stay Put and wait for further instructions. I crept out of the house with Blossom under my arm at 5am, having had four hours sleep in which I dreamed that I was picking chunks of carrot and cheese out of my bra using pens as chop-sticks. I poured every bit of adrenalin my body could produce into the workshop and thanked the Gods for my perfect baby Blossom, who cooed and slept and charmed through the day.

On the way home, worried about Little Lion, I did the unspeakable. Well, if phones weren’t mobile, we wouldn’ t use them while mobilising, would we? But they are, so we do. And yes, Mr Enforcer of the Law, I do have a baby in the back and I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I am somehow being willfully reckless with her life. I am not a bad mother for wanting to find out how my son is doing. I am not a bad mother for wanting to get on the freeway as soon as humanly possible so I may beat the traffic and get home to him. I am not a bad mother for doing both at the same time!… Or am I?

3 points and $258 suggests that I am. Pathetic-woman-tears sucked back. Hands free kit on shopping list. Top way to cap off the day and all because LL threw that curve ball with precision and flair, right into my blind spot. Top shot, little buddy! I’ll see the next one coming though, I promise!

PS: He capped it all off with a FULL DAY of crying yesterday and a monumental poo-to-end-all-poos last night. It was just a shame that I was supposed to be writing a speech due to be delivered this morning at 8am. Once again, a public appearance of an ‘inspirational’ nature was done feeling under-prepared and like I had been pummeled by a curve-ball machine. Thank goodness the feedback has been great – looks like my acting skills and adrenalin production are ship-shape!


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