Recently my little bundle of attitude celebrated his fourth birthday. After opening his presents in 0.02 seconds we visited family and decided to have a McDonalds lunch(#NotAnAd) and a nice long walk along the beach. We had planned to go to Brands Hatch but I didn’t have much money and I hoped some fresh air and a Drive-Thru might be enough of a treat.
I’m not winning any medals in the exciting mum categories, I know.
After what seemed like six hours we finally made it out of the door – I’ve no idea how we ever get anywhere when the two males in my life seem unable to find a coat and shoes and order their legs to walk out of the house.
Eventually we left and a cheeky Big Mac(minus beef patty) and Happy Meal later we were fed and happy. The boy lovingly tucked into chicken nuggets and fries until he downed his milkshake and announced he had tummy ache. He’d also dunked his nuggets in chocolate milkshake. Grim.
We arrived at the seaside and spent a good few hours walking along the canal and coastal park and ending up in an adventure playground. It was then I noticed that the boy was soaked. Like, monster-wee soaked.
We weren’t far from the car so I didn’t panic too much, deciding to strip his bottom half when we got back to the car to save soaking the car seat and living with the smell of boy wee for the next week until I can wash the seat covers.
We popped the car boot open and while hubs lifted the boy up I peeled off his wet bottoms and then something sprang at me.
It was a turd. A massive rogue turd.
Hubs dropped the boy like a hot potato, seemingly terrified of the rogue turd. We were both baffled – we’d not had a turd-in-trousers moment for over a year.
We’d committed at this point so we peeled the turd smeared bottoms off the child, covering his legs and socks in shit. It was all over his legs, socks, the boot of the car, my hands – a complete brown-out.
Hubs at this point is bleating that he needs wet wipes and tissues to which I reply I don’t carry them anymore and a mini domestic ensues.
We’ve both got hands covered in shit and a semi-naked child standing in the boot of the car. Hubs suggests a bottle of water to hose him down. I remind him it’s November and he’s not a dog. A discarded paper in the boot of the car saves us, we place the child on the paper in the car seat and agree that he needs to go straight in the bath when we get home. All is well, apart from the contents of the car and interior that are covered in shit.
Hubs is still moaning about the shit on his hands at this point. I spit on a serviette and he looks at me with the same disgusted face I first saw when I squatted in a field to wee on our second date.
Have you ever heated up shit? Imagine being in a car with the heating on. Wowzers.
I determined through diplomatic parenting on the way home that the boy was having such a fun time in the play park he accidentally wet himself and a ghost poo escaped at the same time. We discuss how he must tell us in future and all seems to be well.
We stopped at a petrol station so
bitch tits hubs can wash his hands and we all cheer ourselves up with mini chocolate brownies. At this point we discuss how my hands are still unwashed. And I’m strangely not disgusted or bothered – motherhood seems to have a way of desensitising you to the horrors of what bacteria lurks under ones fingernails. At this point I reminisce back to four years ago, and remind myself that it’s been four years since I could trust a brown stain on my hands or clothing.
I joke that it’s okay; we are only ten minutes from home. At which point we hit traffic and the journey takes an hour.
We abandoned the car on the drive and toddled indoors clutching the poo-stained child and a bag of clothes and other random items from the back of the car we’d used to clean up the shitstorm. I can confirm it’s taken multiple cleans and a fuck ton of a well known scented disinfectant to mask the stench of body fluids that was lingering.
I pick up the bag. It’s covered in poo(shock horror).
“You should start carrying wet wipes again babe” said my husband.