Thursday afternoon and I pause in the kitchen to breathe in the delicious aroma of yogurt banana cake baking in the oven. *nom nom nom*
Turn and trip over the clever arrangement of children's toys, scattered over the floor like a special mummy booby trap. Joy!
Quick check on pre-schooler in bathroom who has developed mystery fever and is having a cool bath. Child is busy using toothbrush to clean black mould from the bit of lino that has peeled up from edge of shower stall. Child seems well then.
Screams of "god no! Oh yuck, it's in his hair!" can be heard from the lounge. Screams are getting louder. Closer. Too close. Damn it. Bathroom door opens, toddler is thrust into unwilling mummy arms.
Toddler is wearing a new hat. A hat made of poo. Toddler also has new shoes to match. And gloves. And lipstick it seems.
Feverish child is elbowed out of bath, poopy kid dropped into it. Feverish child gags. Smells bad mum! Poopy kid grabs mummy dearest with gammy hands. Wants to get out of bath. And then back in. And then out. It's the Happy Poo Dance.
A song comes to mind. Join in with me if you will.
You put your left foot in, you put your left foot out, you put your left foot in and you shake it all about, you do the poopy dookie and you turn around, that's what it's all about...
Mummy smiles through gritted teeth and reminds herself that somewhere in the world, there are other mothers enduring similar scenarios. At least that's what that article in Next magazine said.
The cleansing is complete. A new smell begins to take the place of eau de poo.
Burnt cake.
FML.
You're lucky there's no photo to accompany this post. Instead I have drawn a lil' picture, outlining the event. Just in case you can't be naffed reading through my long-winded drivel.
