Yesterday, I had just begun a quick sketch for last night’s post, when I was interrupted. Returning to my task, I was unable to find my sketch (not unusual around here), and since I had barely begun, I simply started another. Last night Daffodil had a lot of Zombie talk, which was interesting because our only zombie communications to this point had been a brief explanation of the term (because I call her brother Zomboy), and a single performance of a song I wrote (“Zombies in Pajamas”, based on a dream and initial lyric conveyed to me by the inestimable Diana Marie Painter) several years ago. Also, a week or two ago, she told me of a fearful meeting with Plants vs. Zombies at her mum’s house. Last night, though, she was quite worried about zombies, and the possibility that there might be some in the bathroom. Always one to obsess about what bothers her, while I was preparing last night’s post, Daffodil took my first sketch and made it her own. Much more zombie-like, I must admit, than my own drawing.
This morning, she was merrily knocking down the blocks of her new castle with her new Grunkle Cannon, when I started to gather clothing suitable for an excursion into the Outside World. She wailed and told me she was sick.
Daffodil: “NO! Augh! I’m sick! I feel like puking!”
A quick check revealed an absence of fevered brow, but she insisted, so I suggested she go into the bathroom if she was going to throw up and do it in the toilet. Of course, like any parent thwarted by a five year old, I wasn’t buying any of this.
From the bathroom came a series of truly gruesome retching and heaving noises, and some that are usually only associated with demonic possession, so I went in and had a look, but no real action had transpired. Daffodil is an accomplished thespian, so I left her to it, and there continued to issue forth considerable sound and fury, signifying nothing. After a time she shuffled out of the bathroom, having produced nary a speck of spew, and crawled into bed.
While I did not take this performance as evidence of an actual illness, I did play along to the extent of placing an old towel under her head (still normal in temperature). This turned out to be an amazing stroke of luck, because she soon started spouting great rivers of phlegm, mostly clear. I only wish I had played along to the extent of putting her hair in a rubber band.
She has since brought up some yellow bile, and is resting among new towels (well, old towels, but clean ones). If things follow their usual course, a washer load of towels will be puked on, a little at a time, and she will recover some time this evening.
All this would be easier to bear if the hot water heater had not given up the ghost xmas eve. I somehow feel that barf ought to be laundered in hot water, and this is not a project I can attend to with Daffodil on her sick bed. Life among the Undead…