SHIT! Literally. Somehow, I became one of those mums who talks about it.
Sure, we’ve all seen it, accidentally got it on our hands, wiped it off God knows how many surfaces… but talking about it? With other adults? Really?
I can assure you I’m no stranger to parental insanity – mostly of the sleep-deprived, put-the-kettle-in-the-cupboard variety – but I’ve always considered myself a cut or two above the turd-talkers. And Alicia Silverstone. (WTF again Silverstone? Hadn’t quite cornered the market in crazy with the whole pre-mastication thing?)
And yet last week I found myself taking delight in dishing out the latest tale in my baby shit saga (turd tale? poo parable? fecal fable?) to a childless male colleague.
It started innocently enough – he just didn’t get the whole cute baby thing. They’re gross. They smell bad. They spew without warning! he said, like he was breaking some awful news to me.
Well, my friend, do I have a story for you!
And before I could stop myself, I was telling him exactly how shit goes down in our household…
Last week I was mid-way through a semi-peaceful breakfast of toast and tea (clearly a bad omen already) when I noticed my little one playing quietly – too quietly – on the lounge room floor. It wasn’t until I stepped forward and peered over the coffee table that I realised a drama of plopic proportions that was splattering on the floor right before my very eyes.
A frantic assessment of the situation pieced together the following: stomach bug, puddle of poo, baby splashing in puddle of poo, poo on hands, poo on clothes, dummy in – phew – but covered in poo. FAAAAAARK!
In a frantic blur I cleaned the floor, extracted the offending child from her clothes and blast-washed her in the laundry tub.
But here’s the clincher:
As I returned to the lounge room with my now-clean baby, I found several suspicious puddles on the floor. Surely not more poo, you say?? Nope, that would be my three-year-old’s vomit, courtesy of the stenchy baby arse she was forced to inhale.
It was 7.30am, my tea was cold, my toast was practically fossilised, and I had seen more than enough shit and vomit already that day.
And there you have it, I said, like it was actually something he would care to know. Like it was remotely funny for someone who had expressed a genuine horror at milky baby spew.
Yep, I’m that person. But hey, at least I didn’t post about it on Facebook, right?
Should I really put a call-out for comments on this one? Hell, why not. Share your funny poo moments here without fear of retribution…