I know what you ate last summer

Another day, another olfactory* assault. Walking into Elliot’s room this morning was like being slapped in the face with a wet turd. He’d tried again to clean himself up, and he himself actually looks and smells quite clean, but the carpet in particular had come off quite badly.

Interestingly, in cleaning the carpet of crap, I noticed that you can tell what Elliot ate yesterday by how it has come out the other end. He had lunch at a friend’s house yesterday so I said to him that I can tell by looking into his eyes that he had sandwiches with seeded bread for lunch. It freaked him out a bit, until he realised that I’d actually been rifling through his poo.

I can’t believe the quantities that are coming out of him. He’s only small but he’s producing enough poo to keep Kew Gardens in manure for months. I guess this means the extra laxatives are properly clearing him out, so his bowel should gradually return to its normal size. This in turn, we are told, will reduce the pressure on his bladder, meaning he shouldn’t have so many wee accidents.

For now, the wee accidents are still in full swing. When he returned from his friend’s house yesterday he was soaking wet. His lovely friend either hadn’t noticed (young boys are probably used to all kinds of weird smells) or had noticed but didn’t make a thing of it. So Elliot had had a nice time, but I know he wouldn’t have been able to fully relax once he’d wet himself. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself by going off and getting changed so he’d carried on playing, hoping the wet would just go away. I completely understand why he does this. Imagine being in a meeting at work and accidentally wetting or soiling yourself. Would you get up, leaving a wet seat, walk across the room with wet trousers, draw attention to yourself by picking up your bag of clean clothes, and head off to the toilet? No you’d sit in your seat, hoping the room will swallow you up, and wait until every last person has left the room before shuffling off, dying of embarrassment.

In other news, our doctor’s surgery have changed their telephone holding music. It used to be a Greensleeves-esque plinky plonky nothingness. Which I guess was chosen to make you feel calm and relaxed as you wait, 17th in the queue, for your call to be answered by a surly receptionist telling you all the appointments have gone today, please try again tomorrow. But now the holding music sounds like thrash metal. Punctuated by a man saying in a sinister growly voice that ‘the surgery know you are waiting’. I like it. It has a certain honesty to it. They know you are waiting, they know you’re probably getting a bit cross, but they’re not going to promise they’re ever going to answer.

*I like the word olfactory, it makes me feel intelligent. If only I hadn’t learnt it from watching Nina and the Neurons on CBeebies.

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