CHAMOMILLA
Matricaria chamomilla
The child’s fit of anger, all because his demands were not catered for, bordered on comical, his mother mused as she witnessed her son toss much loved toys across the room, toys that only moments before, had, in-between sobs and sticky mucus bubbles exploding from both the child’s nostrils, been passionately demanded (throws things asked for). Capricious and peevish nothing would appease Charlie Chamomilla, he was never satisfied.
Ears drums assaulted long enough, Charlie’s mother turned away from the spectacle of ugly behaviour and went into the bright kitchen, retrieved her son’s favourite plastic elephant feeding cup from the spotlessly clean kitchen cupboard and filled it with cold filtered water from the fridge. Charlie was a thirsty child. Noticing Charlie’s face cloth on the thick wooden butcher’s table in the middle of the spacious kitchen, she picked it up, soaked it under the cold stream of water from the tap, squeezed it out and returned to her cross, ugly, angry son, still in the throws of his performance.
As soon as Charlie spied his mother he became silent. His little body jerked with sobs he attempted to stifle. Charlie’s water logged eyes met hers. His mother smiled, stepped onto the plush blue Persian rug and walked towards her son. Two steps into her stride, all hell let loose, Charlie screamed like a Banshee (cried when approached or interfered with). His mother familiar with the pattern, ignored the bedlam, and scooped her son from the blueness into her arms. Charlie kicked savagely and stiffened his body. However, true to form when picked up and carried he soon quieted down (> carried), despite his aversion to being touched. Charlie’s mother offered her son the cold drink; he eagerly gulped down the liquid from the elephant’s trunk almost choking as involuntary sobs collided with the cold soothing liquid. She wiped his hot face with the cool cloth, and gently patted his chubby cheeks, one distinctly rosy red and hot the other pale and cool. Mercifully, Charlie was ameliorated with cold drinks and applications and soon became silent.
CHAMOMILLA MATERIA MEDICA
Ears drums assaulted long enough, Charlie’s mother turned away from the spectacle of ugly behaviour and went into the bright kitchen, retrieved her son’s favourite plastic elephant feeding cup from the spotlessly clean kitchen cupboard and filled it with cold filtered water from the fridge. Charlie was a thirsty child. Noticing Charlie’s face cloth on the thick wooden butcher’s table in the middle of the spacious kitchen, she picked it up, soaked it under the cold stream of water from the tap, squeezed it out and returned to her cross, ugly, angry son, still in the throws of his performance.
As soon as Charlie spied his mother he became silent. His little body jerked with sobs he attempted to stifle. Charlie’s water logged eyes met hers. His mother smiled, stepped onto the plush blue Persian rug and walked towards her son. Two steps into her stride, all hell let loose, Charlie screamed like a Banshee (cried when approached or interfered with). His mother familiar with the pattern, ignored the bedlam, and scooped her son from the blueness into her arms. Charlie kicked savagely and stiffened his body. However, true to form when picked up and carried he soon quieted down (> carried), despite his aversion to being touched. Charlie’s mother offered her son the cold drink; he eagerly gulped down the liquid from the elephant’s trunk almost choking as involuntary sobs collided with the cold soothing liquid. She wiped his hot face with the cool cloth, and gently patted his chubby cheeks, one distinctly rosy red and hot the other pale and cool. Mercifully, Charlie was ameliorated with cold drinks and applications and soon became silent.
CHAMOMILLA MATERIA MEDICA