Watch out, there’s a giraffe about…

My daughter and I have some of our best conversations in the car, where she seems to just let her imagination run wild.  Driving home from IKEA yesterday (where we seem to spend half our lives), we started talking about the birds and where and when they go to sleep.  She thought it was half past one or two in the morning, but when I pointed out that once it starts getting dark you don’t see many birds flying around anymore, she said that it was because the birdies were hiding behind the houses, and when they wanted to go anywhere in the sky, they would just hide behind a plane.  Being me, I went with it:

“So what other animals might hide behind a house”
“Hmmm, elephants.”
“Wow, it would have to be a big house!”
“No mummy, they can go really small.  There is one hiding under my trampoline.”
“OK, well I’m sure he’s a nice elephant, and maybe he just wants a play when we’re all sleeping.  Are there any other animals that hide behind houses?”
“Yes mummy, there’s a giraffe over there but he’s not good at hiding because he’s too big and I can see his head.  Mummy, I want to play I Spy!  I spy with my little eye something beginning with B!”
“Oh, I don’t know…  boat?  Bat?  Bike?”
“No mummy, I’ll give you a clue.  It’s very big, like a giraffe.”
“Oh, this is a hard one.  Emmmmm…”
“It’s a giraffe!”

 

A giraffe, not hiding behind a house

 

Advertisements

Let’s talk about poo

Before I had kids, I really didn’t talk about poo very often.  You know, there was the odd day where it would affect my life, after a particularly ‘good’ night out, an iffy dinner, or an illness, and I’d mention something vague, in passing, to close friends or colleagues about a ‘dodgy tummy’, but by and large it wasn’t something that overly concerned me.

Now, two children later, I feel like it might be one of my favourite topics.  Precious first born’s nappies were examined with fervour and the colour, consistency and contents duly discussed with other half upon his return from work.  We still talk about the time she did a massive one in the bathroom section of IKEA, about the furthest away from a real toilet as you can get.  And the time we left the house and there was a poonami incident in her carseat which necessitated us diverting to my brother’s house in order to dunk her in the bath and shower her off.  Ahhh, memories.

In fact, all this talk of poo reminds me that on one of my daughter’s first settling in days at nursery, I had to change her as soon as I dropped her off.  And while I was doing so, she put her foot in the poo and wiped it down my white t-shirt.  I was quick with the baby wipes, but there was still a small, but noticeable stain.  So of course, as an oversharer, I pointed out what had happened to one of the nursery attendants, and said I’d intended to go shopping while she was in for the hour or so of settling in, but now I was going to have to go home and change.  And this, no word of a lie is the conversation we then had:
Her “Where are you going shopping?”
Me “Connswater”
Her “Well, sure you’ll be ok then.  If it was Victoria Square I’d say go home and change, but it’s only Connswater, sure nobody will even blink an eye.”
It should be part of their new advertising campaign, surely?  Connswater – the shopping centre where you can shop whilst covered in poo.

So imagine my glee yesterday when bathing the two girls, when the baby stood up, held onto the side of the bath and hunkered down, grunted, then popped out three poops.  Then hilariously, put her bum down into the water and farted so that bubbles came up.  Twice.

Cue hilarious bought of giggling from her big sister, and from myself.

But then imagine my horror as I realise I have to deal with those three little logs.

I’m sure mums all around the world have had to deal with such issues.  In fact, I’m aware of at least one who’s had to pick up little presents from her toddler from behind her sofa.  So in I dove with a hand covered in multiple baby wipes, and I fished them out, and threw them down the toilet.  It was all going well until I realised that in order for my children to remain ‘clean’, I would have to empty the bath of children, drain the bath, clean the bath, run another bath and pop said children back in, all while dealing with cries of ‘I’m cold’ from the older one, and slightly delirious laughs from the youngest.   So that’s what I did.  We were late getting to bed that night, but at least they weren’t covered in poo.  And if you’re ending the day with your children asleep and not covered in poo, you’re doing alright in my book!