Tuesday, 11 September 2012


Some days you shouldn't bother getting out of bed. Those are the days when the planets converge on you and you have a really crap day. You leave the house in the morning with the best of intentions and ends with you telling The Chancellor you've had enough and want to find a new job. Though once the morning has come around again I am refreshed (generally) and ready for another onslaught. And so it will all happen again and the vicious cycle continues.

99% of nappy changes are fairly routine and mundane. The only problem with this 99% is, as the little man has grown he now gets bored of my conversation on his change mat and decides to crawl away. This would be ok if he wasn't covered in poo and leaving a streak as he charges across the room with that devilish look in his eyes, like he knows exactly what he's doing. There are time he actually looks back at me and grins. Cheeky bugger. At least, however, this kind of thing is fairly easy to deal with, happening behind closed doors where I have wipes etc. Even if by the end of the ordeal you are leafing through the job section of the local paper.

However there is that 1%. That dreaded 1%. Yesterday was the third time it has happened to me and in the most of public places, the local supermarket. Having an ill child is really crap, for you and for them. You can tell when the wee man is ill, he refuses food and whinges ALL the time with this noise that just reverberates around your skull. A bit like global warming, once the noise is in it has nowhere to go and just bounces around and heats you up. You can tell something bad is happening when you can smell him from 30 paces. So as I go up and down the aisles humming to him I start to smell something a  bit off. Hoping it is just one of the many elderly people I have passed I hurry to the checkout. As I begin to load the shopping into the bottom of the pushchair the smell increases and I realise we have had a breach and not just any breach but a very runny and very smelly breach. All over the pushchair... The little man seems quite happy, not surprised if that has been inside him for that long.

Sometimes you just have to sigh. Getting stressed doesn't really help. So I pay up and trudge home covering the offending mess with a cloth and trying to keep his hands away. Easier said than done. The mess on the pushchair is nothing compared to what is in his trousers. It takes me half an hour to clean, change and dress the little man and then a further fifteen minutes to clean the pushchair. Is this what I signed up for?

I slump to the floor covered in poo surrounded by dirty cloths and dirty clothes. From between the bars of his cot he smiles at me and says 'Agoo'.

'You owe me kid, you owe me BIG time!'


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