As I mentioned in a guest post I did for Erin over at dropped stitches the other week, one of the thinkgs I really wasn’t looking forward to about parenthood was the poo. Other peoples poo. I’m not good with it. Not good with it at all.
Of course it’s bad enough when the kids are little, sitting there wriggling around and generally projectile spraying poo at you at any given chance but once they’re up and about, and talking to you, things take a turn for the worse.
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| The Portal of Doom |
Once the children are out of nappies and a bit more confident, the problems really start. The boy was late to it all, gone three by the time he was properly house trained as you might say but Fifi has been going at it with gusto for a few months now. And the cries of “No! I want to do it myself!” are cute from a not quite three yet year old but the child then wants to get off the toilet and have a good look before bottom wiping occurs (and thank goodness she hasn’t decided to do this herself yet). The problem with this is any bottom mess tends to get smeared all over the loo seat and her bottom. In fact yesterday she managed to get her hand in it as well, which required some considerable cleansing, as well as calming down a horrified little girl.
Still, these things are like buses and it wasn’t more than twenty minutes later that the boy managed to spread it like marmite over his buttocks as he twisted round to have a look. I don’t really blame him though, it was sort of my fault as I exclaimed, “Good grief, that’s as big as your sister!” when I saw the size of it. No wonder his eyes had been watering.
Baths all round and a stiff drink for me afterwards…