The Chickie Pox

Chickie was thrilled this morning to see his mummy dressed as a Ninja in a black hood and mask.


Having suspected his suspicious rash from the day before might be thinking about being chicken pox, I was taking no chances. My Italian girlie holiday was just a 21 day incubation period away. Without a anti-contamination suit handy, I got creative, fashioning a balaclava out of a pair of knickers. Accountant peered at me from underneath his eye mask as I crept out of the bedroom wearing my new frilly high leg hat. He let out a snort before turning over to resume his snooze, uncaring that this might be the day I’d been dreading my whole adult life.

Wearing woolly gloves and, using extreme caution, I lifted Chickie’s pyjama top. “Baddies” confirmed Chickie excitedly as I scowled at the sinister gathering of red spots scattered across his torso. I retreated slowly.

“Chickie’s got chicken pox” I informed the back of Accountant’s grunting head.
“Chickie pox?” he drooled into his pillow.
“This isn’t funny. I haven’t had it”. Or at least I didn’t think I had.
“You’ve had glandular fever. Oh, and whooping cough” said my mother.
“Yes but what about chicken pox?”
“Ohhhh, I don’t know?”
“How can you not know? Everyone knows whether they’ve had chicken pox?”
“Well, you’ve definitely had glandular fever and your father had scarlet fever and double quinsies”.

It seemed no one was taking this seriously. The pox at my age were no laughing matter if the images on Google were to be believed. Not to mention that flesh eating scabs were not considered lakeside chic.

“Would you mind if I moved out this week?” I mumbled through my pants to a sleeping Accountant whilst Chickie counted his dots. “That was the Emergency Plan in the event of an outbreak”.
Ever the forward planner, I had considered this scenario and remembered Accountant vaguely nodding along to my suggestion that, in the event our child contracted any infectious disease to which my immunity wasn’t guaranteed, a quarantine period would apply.
“2, 8, 7, 3”, said Chickie poking his finger into each of his new blotches in turn.

Resigned to the fact I wasn’t going away, Accountant turned toward me. Accepting of my eccentricities concerning preventative health measures, he made no comment about my homemade face mask. “You’ve probably already got it. You’ve been with him all week” he said reassuringly.

I thought back, reliving the moment Chickie sneezed into my beef sandwich and when he’d tenderly kissed the end of my nose. A heart warming gesture I’d thought at the time but, no, just the point of entry for his infected airborne respiratory droplets.

Some days later, I sat counting my very own batch of Chickie pox. “145, 146, 147...”. I sighed, wondering if God had chuckled to himself when I’d bought a polka dot swimming cossie in anticipation of my holiday.