When poo gets the best of you.
I usually schedule my posts for the blog; know what I’m going to write in advance, take my time with the photography and words and prepare in time for publish day.
Then there are those spur-of-the-moment posts; they don’t come very often, but they’re usually due to a huge epiphany or an opinion regarding a current event, or like on this occasion, they're about poo.
Today, something happened. It’s not a great parenting epiphany, quite the opposite, but if I don’t write about it, I fear I may need to source some wellies pretty sharpish, lest I be splashing in a puddle of my own tears.
Here’s the back-story: We’re currently potty training— I’m sure you can already see where this one’s going —and it totally sucks. My child sucks at doing it and I suck at teaching him. Last night, we had a spectacularly exhausting evening that ended with delirious laughter at a youtube video that somehow calmed my screaming newborn instantly. You know, the newborn that I birthed, the one I carried for 9 months, the same who is regularly glued to my nipple whilst I take care of daily chores, the one who helped multi-tasking in my home become multi-hundreds-of-tasking.
Yep, that child who would not be comforted by their own mother was reduced to instant calm by someone animatedly opening several chocolate eggs to a tune that was almost as bad as Virgin Media’s hold music (considering they think it fair to push my bill up by £3.50 every few months, it's something I'm forced to listen to alot).
I digress, this morning I was so tired I exhausted re-runs of Paw Patrol until even my toddler was yelling “NO MORE PAW PAW MUMMY” and now I wonder if perhaps what was soon to happen was some sort of intended revenge to get back at me for this particular event.
Once I’d finally managed to get us all downstairs, I remembered I hadn’t yet changed my toddlers night-time pull-up to a fresh one, so with baby on hip, I pulled down the pull-up and I kid you not.. out rolled several tiny balls of poop, alongside one mighty huge one. All over my rug.
Devastation ensued; the toddler ran away from the scene of the crime and I was left to, quite literally, pick up the pieces. The baby vomited. I almost vomited. And the toddler climbed my sofa before I could even blink and sat down before I could even fathom where a pack of wipes were (directly behind me, of course, because sod’s law would choose to attack me on such a day).
My rug was covered in poo. My sofa was covered in poo. My baby was screaming. My toddler was oblivious lyrics singing "show me, show me!" at the top of his lungs.
I’m not the most domestic of goddesses if I’m entirely honest. Situations like these aren’t my forte so I did what any sane person would do. I cried. When I'd finished, I realised there was no one I could call for help. The other half would probably not be best pleased if I called him home for a poo-related emergency (even though in my eyes, it was quite a necessary) and I couldn’t depend on the toddler or baby to do anything about it (lazy little sods), so I spent my morning armed with any spray I could dig out from under the sink (smart-price Febreze, anti-bac and nuclear-force kitchen towel) cleaning up poo.
And then, for some reason, I let my toddler have the play-doh, and now my floor is not only covered with poo (I cleaned and I scrubbed but does something like that ever really leave you?) but covered with a sticky substance that will pick up any tiny particle that may be leftover from what I now refer to as ‘the incident’.
And the moral of the story is.. some days you will feel as if you suck at this parenting thing, especially when there’s human faeces involved, and as much as I wish I could protect you from a morning like mine, I cannot.
Because today it got the better of me and if you have small children, one day soon, it may not be tomorrow, it may not even happen in the next few months, but one day, the poo will get the better of you too.
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