DAY 1: Elliot has had a spot on the back of his neck since he finished school on Thursday. I thought it was a bite and paid it no attention. However, he’s just had a wee and Reece has noticed two more spots on his groin. I ignore them, hoping it’s a bite.
I have a sore throat and feel a bit sniffly, which is just adding to the general malaise of the house.
By bedtime, he’s got this manky weird blister on his forehead and I accept my fate. The pox has arrived.
I realise we have the equivalent of one dose of Calpol left in the bottle and the pharmacy over the road is already closed. (WHY?!)
DAY 2: The spots are growing in number and some are blistering, which is rank. Reece and I take it in turns to look at Elliot’s back and grimace at each other.
I feel even worse today. I spend my morning crying and my afternoon in the Out Of Hours doctor’s getting antibiotics and coughing up yellow gunk.
Elliot spends the day making Star Wars Lego creations and shouting about how much he loves The Simpsons. He says his first swear word, thanks to Bart Simpson. Crap.
I spend £10 in Boots on some cream to soothe itching I assume Elliot will be suffering from.
DAY 3: It’s Monday. I should be at work. Reece goes to work at 8am and I hold back tears.
I assume the day will be spent watching movies and drifting in and out of sleep. That’s what chicken pox is like, right?
Elliot watches four episodes of Lego Ninjago, three episodes of Captain Underpants and 3 Lego Star Wars films before lunch.
He also proclaims he is 0% itchy all day. I look at the cream on the kitchen side and almost weep.
Reece has to stay late at work and comes in at 9pm. I am desperate for sleep, but somehow end up watching Russian Doll for three hours instead.
DAY 4: Starting to feel like I’m on house arrest. Elliot is re-watching the same episodes of Captain Underpants that we sat through yesterday.
My aunt comes round and sits with Elliot for five minutes whilst I run to the Co-op for essentials: kitchen roll, toilet roll, Ben and Jerry’s Cookie Dough.
Elliot asks for the “sock in the bath” again (filled with oats because it’s apparently soothing) and goes to bed easily, saying “tomorrow I will not watch any telly, I will Just Play.” Alright pal.
I’m wary of how easy this is seeming to be.
DAY 5: Elliot wakes up and announces it is the day of No Telly. About 9am we end up watching The Tempest on CBeebies for the seventy-third time.
I have to reign myself in from obsessively checking his spots every twenty minutes to check if they’re all scabbed and we can finally be on the home stretch. I end up falling down a Google hole of kids with rank scabs on their face.
My cousins come round to play and I suddenly realise how lovely and peaceful quarantine was.
Reece goes on a work night out, has too much champagne and I end up staying up until 1am on the phone to him as he’s drunk and convinced his train is going the wrong way. (He was sat backwards.)
Not even surprised that he is more stressful that the child suffering from blisters covering 60% of his body.
DAY 6: We have scabbed! I have never cheered at the sight of a scab before but today it’s like Christmas! Scabmas!
I finally feel like we can go outside without worrying we’ll walk past The North Kent Pregnant People And People With Compromised Immune System Congregation out on a stroll and kill them all.
We go around the block on the scooter. Elliot says the sun seems too bright and I’m genuinely in shock at how warm it is out there! We quickly retreat back indoors. I open a window so he can still get a semblance of fresh air.
Can’t imagine how much money I’ve saved since we haven’t been for a daily half-term wander around Wilkinsons.
Plans to go out with my mum tomorrow are back on now he’s officially Scabbiot. So excited to see other humans!
DAY 7: Elliot wakes up and proceeds to throw all the cushions off the sofa and all the coats off the stair banister and cackle menacingly at me all morning. He’s better.