Julie Jay: Like lightning, chicken pox doesn’t strike twice — unless you’re very, very special

Number One has been in chicken pox quarantine all week and I don’t have the heart to tell him that, based on my own history of chicken pox, it might not be a one and done situation

The days are long for everyone when you’re in chickenpox quarantine. Picture: iStock

WHEN we were floating around a pool in a Galway hotel, I spotted them. 

Initially, I convinced myself that the red dots were bed bug bites, but given that the previous night we had slept in my mother’s house — my mother, the retired primary teacher — I knew there was a higher likelihood of finding the Magna Carta in her home than finding any form of insect, especially those that like a mattress.

As I peered closer at Number One, now five years old, my attention was drawn to what appeared to be a third spot on his forehead. 

This morning, I could have sworn there had been two, but I quickly pushed away the intrusive thought, because at this point we had discovered the pool’s floatie stash and I had more chance of getting backstage at Coachella than getting him and his two-year-old brother out of the pool. 

But by the time Number One and his dad emerged from the dressing room afterwards, I could tell from my husband’s face that my suspicions were not without basis.

‘Definitely the P-O-C-K-S’, he informed me, because though he is a man of many talents — music, comedy, an ability to make friends wherever he goes — spelling isn’t one of them.

What complicated this was the fact that we had travelled down to this hotel to spend time with my in-laws, and, needless to say, this chickenpox discovery was less than ideal. In our hotel room, we discussed options and rang numerous family members, because we love to live our life by committee.

Eventually, my husband, probably more out of politeness than anything, threw out the empty offer of us leaving early and avoiding seeing family altogether. 

“Well, sure, these things happen,” the family member responded over the phone, and so our fate was sealed. We were indeed departing our hotel after what has to be a new record for the shortest stay ever (two hours).

Chickenpox quarantine

And so it was that we spent the week at home, inside, occasionally venturing to the yard we cheerfully call a garden, despite the only real greenery consisting of weeds and the occasional Kerry jersey hanging forgotten on the washing line.

It has been hardest on Number One, of course, but hard on mammy, too, because I haven’t seen him this sick since he had RSV as a toddler. He really hasn’t been himself, which is to be expected when you’ve got such a nasty dose.

The days are long for everyone when you’re in chickenpox quarantine. As much as I’d love to say I’ve filled them out with colouring and crafts and talking about feelings, we also had to resort to the telly to keep our patient happy.

On day one, I insisted that Kung Fu Panda wasn’t a suitable movie because it depicted pandas as fans of kung fu, which anyone who has ever studied animals knows is totally inaccurate. Pandas are much more partial to karate.

By day three of chickenpox quarantine, Number One had watched all four movies in the Kung Fu Panda franchise. This is where people slide into my DMs and tell me this is not appropriate for his age group, and to that I say my favourite film in second class was Pretty Woman. 

Watching Julia Roberts’s odyssey from a sex worker to lady about town on repeat never did me any harm, bar the confused looks I drew when I recited lines from the film on repeat at school talent days.

In an attempt to make Number One feel better about it all, I have reassured him that the good news about chickenpox is that it is a case of one-and-done, and he won’t get it again. What I don’t tell him is that I actually defied all medical odds and managed to get chickenpox not once, but twice, as a child.

This can, of course, only mean I am a very, very special person. 

I still remember convalescing in Dingle when a local doctor came up and cheerfully pronounced me ‘half dead’ on my second bout of the pox. 

Every day I watched my cousins and brother return home, and every day I listened to their lies as they insisted, no doubt prompted by my mother, that they hadn’t spent the day at the beach. Their swimming togs and sandy buckets told a different story, but we believe what we want to believe.

Notwithstanding your child having chickenpox, it isn’t pleasant for anyone, but I am mad to get multiple birds killed with one stone. Of course, officially, I wouldn’t do anything that would place Number Two in a position where he could contract anything unpleasant, but, unofficially, I have been encouraging him to hug his brother even more than usual this week.

So far, there hasn’t been a red dot in sight, but I’m determined to get this over the line. If for no other reason than I can’t take another week of Kung Fu Panda.