On Thursday I broke Monster Major out of nursery early, to go for a date. I took him for a pizza and he behaved like a true gentleman… until he decided it was the correct etiquette to lick his babyccino rather than drink it.
Having clearly become overconfident, I picked Monster Minor up early too. Then I got the dreaded phone call. The phone call that stay at home mums, no, scrap that, EVERY mum fears. The husband dearest ‘I’ll be late home tonight, lovie’ phonecall. SHIT. BOLLOCKS. And much worse besides.
It’s ok, I thought, I got this. Two little ones. Bath and bed. How hard can it be?
Up the stairs we went, in a cheery, sing-song, Mary Poppins fashion. Unfortunately, this image of parental competence was where it ended, as a foul aroma began to emanate from Monster Minor’s backside. Got him onto the changing mat. And I shit you not. He had projected his fucking faeces out of the fucking nappy, up his fucking back, across his fucking shoulders and DOWN. HIS. FUCKING. ARMS. I should have taken a photo to prove that this description is no hyperbole.
Whilst trying to keep hold of Monster Minor to avoid further shit smearing, as well as trying to safeguard myself against any rogue poo particles, I frantically searched for wipes. The most necessary thing
other than wine for any mother of littlies. The thing you use to polish the windowsills, wipe up bribery chocolate carefully home-cooked, organic stews, clean yourself when you’re too shattered to shower (for the third day running), and, most importantly, unpoo your child. And what did I come to find? No sodding wipes. No. wipes. How have we no arsing wipes!?
IT’S ALL FUCKING HUSBAND DEAREST’S BLOODY FAULT, EVERYTHING IS HIS FAULT, I HATE HUSBAND DEAREST AND HIS STUPID BLOODY WORK AND TRAFFIC JAMS.
In a beautiful flash of epiphany, I remembered there was a pack of wipes on the bed in our room. And, excellent, Monster Major was in there!
“Darling, could you bring me the wipes please?”
Holding the writhing ball of excrement, I waited.
“Please bring Mummy the wipes, lovie, your brother has done lots of poo poo”
“STOP ROARING AT THE CATS AND BRING ME THE WIPES FROM THE BED, NOW!”
Cursing my monsters, and obviously husband dearest, I grabbed Monster Minor – consequently rubbing crap all over myself – and marched in to get the blasted baby wipes myself.
“Mummy, I roared at Marfa.”
Yes, now fuck off, you useless child.
Fast forward a poonami clear up, a relatively curse free bath time, and two boys in clean pjs, I felt quite accomplished. I read Monster Major a bedtime story, whilst Monster Minor happily crawled around my feet, and together we were the picture of happy mummy – happy children. I felt like The Pussycat Dolls when they sang ‘I Don’t Need a Man’. Except with more body fat and more grey hair. And, presumably they didn’t have human waste on their cardigans.
Monster Major snoozily tucked up, I settled down in my bed to give Monster Minor his bedtime feed. This is my favourite part of the day. A cuddly feed that only I can give him, whilst he falls asleep in my arms. It’s the stuff sickening baby product adverts are made of.
Five minutes in, a little sicky burp. Oh well, I can just mop that up later. Then, a little coughy sick. I decided I’d need to wipe that one up as I felt the vom trickle down my boobs onto my belly. I laid him down so I was able to grab a muslin. And in that moment, I committed a cardinal sin. The first rule of sicky babies. DON’T LIE THEM DOWN. What I saw next will remain emblazoned on my brain forever. A jet-stream fountain of milky spew projected from my freshly-bathed child, shot half a metre upwards, then returned down to cover his unexpecting face and my bed.
I grabbed Monster Minor as he began to scream. I guess vomit must sting when it descends and pools into your eyeballs. I stripped him off, stripped myself off, and threw our clothes to the floor, leaving puddles of beige fluid on our bedroom carpet. I managed to get us both dry and dressed again, and set to work on mopping up the pools of puke from the new bedding, before it soaked through to the mattress. Monster Minor began to get impatient at this point, so I discarded the sour-smelling towels onto the floor, among the damp sick patches. As I settled, naked and stinking, into a chair to finish of Monster Minor’s feed, I heard Husband Dearest’s key in the door.
Up the stairs (quietly, thank God, we’d be divorced if he’d have woken Monster Major), through the bedroom door, and stood straight in a lumpy mess of regurgitated baby food.
Would it be bad if I said that was my happiest moment of bedtime?