In sickness and in health

Jonah slept through his alarm this morning and for a child of regular habits, this means only one thing. He’s sick. He growled at me when I stroked his head and I could smell it on him. Hamstery with overtones of bile. He shouted about missing his alarm. Feeling unwell dawns on him slowly. The anger comes first, and I’m used enough to handling it that I trod carefully massaging his ego, whilst holding steady on checking his attitude.

‘Are you feeling poorly?’ I asked. ‘You smell a little sick.’ Scent he understands having an over sensitive nose himself, but he grunted at me, and I helped him into his t-shirt and felt his brow. “I’ll take your temperature,” I said. He likes that. It’s numbers, so he acquiesced.

He was only a degree or so over, but later, with bluish circles under his eyes, he acknowledged having a feeling in his throat. Pain transmits oddly to Jonah, always has. A massive bump or scraped knee elicits less response than a food he doesn’t wish to eat; he feels no cold, and is sensitive to touch.

He rarely complains of feeling ill, but his behaviour will deteriorate and his lack of appetite is proof of the pudding. I fed him a spoonful of honey and packed him off to school. After all, a day of poorly Jonah is much, much tougher than a day in the office. His teachers will call if his temp goes up. And Helorgi, the sexy babysitters are much more patient than me. They are paid to be.