I’ve got one kid who’s more susceptible to the stomach flu than the others. I promise you, if it’s going around, and often even if it’s not, this kid will get it at least twice. Often three times. And repeat every other month or so just so he doesn’t forget how. But the good news is, he processes it in less than 24 hours. Every time. So, silver lining!
The problem with kids, of course, is they suck at communication. I mean, it’s not their fault they suck at communication; it’s just they don’t yet have the experience or vocabulary to give us grown-ups all the information we need. For example, Stomach Flu Kid? Yeah. For the past two years, every single vomitty episode is the same.
- Cael goes pale.
- Cael complains of headache.
- Cael harfs buckets.
And he’s not the kid of mine who always makes it to an appropriate vomit-receptacle, either. Nope; this is the kid who ralphs without warning, but with great enthusiasm, and we never, ever – ever – get the bucket to him in time, because he never, ever – ever – tells us when it’s coming.
So I’ve spent years with this kid – two straight years at least – trying to help him with his stomach flu communication. Trying to help him understand that the headache isn’t a headache… that’s called nausea, or, if that word’s too hard to remember when you’re sick, then it’s called “I FEEL LIKE I’M GOING TO THROW UP, MOM.”
But no luck. Just none. Because TERRIBLE COMMUNICATION, I tell you. This kid can talk you under the table about Minecraft or insect anatomy or why 7-year-olds should be allowed to have driver’s licenses, but he cannot, no matter what, identify nausea.
And guess what?
Cael had the stomach flu three times last week. Woohoo! Twice at home and once at school. Three times lucky, friends. And every time was the same.
Then, “Mom, my head hurts.”
Then me, “That’s called nausea, Cael. Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”
Then him, “I have a headache.”
Then me, “Can you say nausea? Nausea. You feel nauseated. Do you need a bucket?”
And him, “I have a heada…”…aaannd… puke cascading everywhere.
Every. Where. All of the Places. Like PlayDoh or glitter or those teeny, tiny LEGO pieces, impossible to contain once released into the wild.
And I swear I didn’t chide him for barfing. I didn’t. I wiped him up with someone’s t-shirt and undies, helpfully abandoned in the hallway near-by, and I said as I carried him to my bed to rest, “Oh, sweetie. Honey. That was nausea.”
And he looked at me, droopy-eyed and exhausted, and said, “I had a headache.”
Which is when it occurred to me that he might be having… wait for it… headaches.
Because it also occurred to me that I get migraines.
And my mom gets migraines.
And my symptoms are primarily headache followed by the sudden onset of nausea / vomitting. Without, you know, a build-up of nausea as a precursor.
Years. Years this kid has been telling me he has headaches.
Years. Years I’ve been telling him he’s wrong.
So I took Cael to the doctor yesterday to talk about his penchant for the stomach flu. And the doctor listened to his symptoms and diagnosed him with migraines.
So… that was great.
And here’s my awesome advice on How to Teach Kids Effective Communication:
SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO THEM, Beth. Geez.
I’m glad we had this chat.
P.S. Obviously, I have Parent of the Year in the bag, but if you have a similar I Rock Parenting story, I’m not opposed to having some company here on the awards stage. **ahem**