I’m talking to Lizzie and Annie in the living room.
We’re all recovering from a twenty-four hour stomach bug, which has seen Annie off school the last few days.
I felt pretty dizzy and nauseous last night, but today I seem to be OK again.
Annie, on the other hand, is really milking the fact she’s vomited a number of times in the last forty-eight hours. When it comes to feeling as sick as a dog, she’s making it very clear that she’s top dog.
‘I vomited EIGHT TIMES yesterday,’ she says proudly, whilst hovering greedily over some chocolate cake Lizzie’s just made (slightly worryingly, on the spreading germs front) and put on the coffee table in the middle of the room.
‘How many times have you been sick this week, Dad?’
‘No times,’ I reply. ‘I’ve felt sick. But I haven’t vomited. I haven’t vomited for years.’
Annie looks at me disbelievingly, but what I just said is actually true. Despite some close calls (involving alcohol, stomach bugs or fairground rides – never simultaneously, fortunately), I haven’t actually thrown up my entire adult life. I don’t know why, it’s just one of those things. As I think about it now – after a year or so of unremitting family illness – the whole thing seems especially strange. Why don’t I ever vom? It’s a mystery.
‘When was the last time you were sick?’ Annie asks, suspiciously.
‘I don’t know. When I was about eight, probably,’ I reply, truthfully.
Annie looks like she’s seriously not buying this.
‘But I’ve been nearly sick many times,’ I continue, trying to claw back some credibility. ‘When was the last time you think I was nearly sick, Annie?’
I’m not sure why I’ve decided to make the subject of me being nearly sick – and when it most recently happened – into some kind of game, with my daughter. This is obviously just the kind of dysfunctional parent I am.
Lizzie doesn’t look impressed by any of this conversation. Annie seems interested, though.
‘When were you last nearly sick?’ she considers, thoughtfully. ‘Was it…’ a thought forms in her brain.
‘Was it when you saw Mum giving birth?’
‘Annie! No!’ I splutter back, aghast. ‘That was a beautiful experience. Obviously, it didn’t make me want to vomit.’
Annie doesn’t look convinced (Lizzie neither, for that matter). What Annie does look is… pleased with herself that she’s managed to say something taboo and outrageous. That is one of her favourite things in the world to do.
‘So no, it wasn’t that,’ I emphasise. ‘That was NOT the last thing which made me nearly sick.’
‘Was it…’ says Annie, having another go, ‘when Mum told you she was pregnant?’
Oh God. Here we go again. Annie has a habit of doing that. Of questioning whether I ever wanted to be a parent. It’s either a result of deep anxiousness and insecurity, on her part. Or part of a massive wind-up… because it’s the most outrageous thing she can think of to say and is sure to push my buttons. Or a mixture of the two.
‘Annie! You and Jake are the best thing that ever happened to me!’ I insist, loudly.
Did that sound convincing? I tried to make it sound heartfelt. I do love my kids, after all! Why is my daughter so intent on playing mind games on the subject with me, though? Have I failed as a parent? GAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!
P. D. Clifton 
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