I didn’t think I’d write another post this week as, to be honest, Neds been boring.
Well, that’s not entirely fair; he’s been brilliant, but nothing really newsworthy. There are only so many times I can mention he’s crawling, or that he ate so much Bolognese that we were worried he might be 50% Mince based.
However, one of my worst mornings was experienced with him today. it was so bad, and within such a small space of time, that I feel as if I had to use this blog as an outlet to explain.
This morning, I took Ned downstairs much later than usual – 6:45 am to be precise. The idea being that I’d look after him for half an hour, and then rouse Mum from her deep slumber.
It was a normal morning – Ned was all smiles, happily playing with a green ball (it’s an irrelevant detail) – the only slight difference was that he was breaking wind at a rate usually reserved for automatic weapons.
Suddenly, my sons face went red. He looked at me; I stared in horror back at him. That sound was not a fart. We both knew this.
With a sigh, I popped him on his changing mat, which was on our sofa. I removed his onesie. What happened next needs to be broken down into what I’d like to call ‘the steps of absolute horror’
1) I realised that he’d eaten a lot of solids the night before
2) This was realised by the fact he’d not only pooed up his back, but down both legs. It was like someone had dipped my son up to his armpits in a thick, tar-like substance.
3) I removed his nappy, to which my son instinctively grabbed his private parts (a new habit – one we’re not particularly impressed with) covering his hands in poo
4) Clearly stressed by the situation, and poo on hands/legs/back/chest, Ned, while trying to be cleaned by me, rolled over onto the sofa.
5) Open mouthed shock and curses to whatever deity had decided to do this to me ensued
6) The pause to make room for cursing proved a mistake, as Ned had rolled again during this
7) While desperately trying to clean up – like a poo equivalent to a Fireman trying to put out an endless blaze with a water pistol – I ran out of baby wipes. I had by then managed to clean up 25% of the damage.
8) Shouts to Claire proved inefficient – damn, that woman was tired.
9) Thinking fast, and using the parts of the onesie that weren’t covered in poo, coupled with a sponge, I had to clean my son, the sofa, the floor (yes, it had got there too) and myself (yes, It had got me too)
10) Spent, and finally cleaned, I sat back in the sofa, watching my son play with the green ball like nothing had happened. I stared open eyed, much like someone who had just witnessed a car crash, or had walked in on their parents doing the nasty.
11) I took him upstairs. It was 7:20. Claire stirred, rolled over to face us – him in just a nappy, me in just my underwear, and asked:
No, my darling, we are not alright. Not alright at all.