Ned is a skilful little soul. At the grand old age of two, he has already mastered the act of looking you straight in the eye and denying he’s done a poo when it’s actually leaking out the side of his nappy on to furniture or it’s so enormous he’s actually having to walk bow-legged. Yes, he’ll make a fuss if he feels too wet or too sore but he’s jiggered if you’re going to interrupt his important me time by changing him on your terms.
|maybe done a stealth poo, maybe not…|
And so it was this morning. He sat in out bed, alternately blatting me on the head and discussing something with wifey. Fifi then came in for a morning cuddle, so Ned disappeared off to her room to sit in her bed (anybody’s bed but his own is apparently the order of the day). “It’s wet!” exclaimed Fifi and she was right, there was a small puddle on our bed. We stripped it down and then realised the naughty protagonist was likely repeating the feat in Fifi’s bed. Fortunately she has a waterproof undersheet, something we don’t, which made sorting her bed a case of whipping two sheets off and nothing much else.
I removed Ned bodily, his legs flailing, to change his sodden nappy. He was not a happy bunny.