Lessons from my daughter #21.
Warning: This post contains references to toilet humour. Readers are advised to proceed at their own risk.
We’ve had a week of poo explosions. On the Saturday before last I was sitting at the breakfast table with my Lovely Mum and Miss L and I proudly mentioned that we had not had a poo in the bath yet and how helpful it was that Miss L didn’t like being dirty. I spoke too soon.
Not 10 minutes later my little pristine princess sat slightly off to her side in the bubble bath with a red face and clenched fists. No no no no no! I made a grab for her slippery little body but I was too slow. Underneath those fragrant bubbles appeared dark shadows that rapidly broke up into chunks of partially digested peas, corn and carrots. Oh the smell! Oh the mess! Oh what to do and where to start? And why are there always carrots???
Since then we have had poo explosions in the car, in the high chair, in the bed, in her brand new handmade ruffle bum panties and in a smear all over the floor. Miss L has had poo on her hands, up her back, on her leg and between her toes. I have had poo in my hair, on my shirt and shorts, up to my elbows and beneath my fingernails. To add insult to injury, she has laughed at me each time.
When I was a child I was a little too fastidious about toilets. I wouldn’t go anywhere without asking, “Will there be a nice bathroom there?” Not just any old bathroom, it had to be a nice one and if it wasn’t nice enough I would hold it until I got home.
My Lovely Mum told me that once I had given birth I would let go of all of that. Not so, Dear Mother, it wasn’t the birth but the heart attack that did it. There I was, five days post delivery, fresh off the back of an ambulance and lying on the table waiting for a surgeon to put a tube up my leg vein and unblock my heart and I had to pee. I caught the eye of the only female in the room and quietly let her know, “I need to pee.” She was busy with something and barely spared me a glance. I tried again, “Excuse me, I really need to use a bathroom.” She brusquely informed me that I couldn’t get up off the table right then and I would need to hold it. I was desperate, “Look, I had a baby five days ago, I’m full of stitches where no one should have stitches and I’ve had two full bags of IV fluids pumped into me so no, I can’t hold it. I need a bedpan and I need one right now!” She ran. Oh the relief. It was almost orgasmic. I peed and peed and peed and peed some more. The surgical nurse hesitantly asked, “Are you finished?” No, no I was not nearly finished, thank you very much. Since then I have peed in a chair with a hole cut out of it, in a disabled toilet hanging on to the bar for dear life, in my jeans when I sneezed (more than once) and down my leg the first time I tried dancing once I healed up. And I’ve laughed each time.
I still don’t like using public toilets and Miss L still doesn’t like having a dirty bottom but we’ve both learned to clean up the mess as quickly and efficiently as possible and get on with the day. It got me thinking though, if we as grown ups wouldn’t consider sitting in a bath full of poo then why do we sit so passively in our own lives when things go down the toilet? Like the proverbial frog in the pot of slowly boiling water, we sit and stew. We cry and complain and doggedly keep doing the same things day in and day out hoping that life will change in this magical land called the future.
I’ve made no secret of the fact that this past year was a hard one, in fact it was the worst year ever except that Miss L came along. Things definitely went to poo and we definitely sat and stewed in it. No longer. Just like my daughter in that tub we are picking ourselves up, washing off the refuse and throwing out the bath water. The future begins now.
Your turn, unleash the poo stories and let’s share a laugh together!