So this morning went like this…
If you’ve ever been in contact with small babies, you may be familiar with what is often referred to as a ‘poonami’. Or sometimes ‘poomaggedon’. Basically when a beautiful, small, sweet smelling creature manages to emit a massive pungent turd, seemingly twice the size of itself, and normally spreading all over its body, hair and surrounding furnishings.
I’ll just leave you to picture that on a nine month old baby. Now imagine that scaled up to a nine year old child.
Who has consumed seventeen pints of lager and a vindaloo. Plus several days of very high strength laxatives.
And who has ‘helpfully’ tried to clear it up for you.
Imagine you also have just been woken up, after quite a poor night’s sleep due to having a cough and sore throat, by your other child, who has decided today is going to be another one of her ‘angry’ days. She has already shouted at you and thrown a shoe at you. This is because she has dropped a Playmobil figure down the stairs and you had the cheek to sleep through it and hadn’t telepathically realised she wanted you to prevent this happening.
So accompanied by the background soundtrack of intensifying shrieking and wailing, you deal with the nine year old, who is coated in a light sheen of shite, and surrounded by enough poo-covered debris to be a contender for the Turner Prize. On bed, on floor, on wall, in Lego, and now, somehow, in your own hair.
You bundle everything, including the child and yourself, into the shower and hose everything down. All while screaming like a fishwife at child number two (and simultaneously being ashamed of yourself for doing so), who is refusing to get dressed and is blaming you for the fact that it isn’t Friday.
Onwards and upwards…