“Muuuuummmmmmmy! I’m fiiiiiiiiiiiiinished.”
Three little words that every mother dreads. It means a bottom needs wiping.
I know, a lot of you think I lead a glamorous life, being an expat in Hong Kong, jetting off to Australia and South Africa, having an ugly car with automatic sliding doors (if you’ve read Family Cars, you’ll know I’m proud of this detail.). But the reality is that I spend many of my waking hours changing nappies and wiping peachy little bums.
The only nappies left in the house belong to 21-month-old The Cute One. He’s just starting bombarding us with words, so I am lucky enough to be (metaphorically) hit with an emphatic “Poo poo!” several times a day. On bad days, it’s followed by the descriptor “BIG!”. And on the worst days ever, I may be (literally) hit with an emphatic poo-poo.
As for the dreaded “Mummy, I’m finished”, it’s a refrain I hear at least once a day from Drummer Boy (twice if he ate too much fruit the day before).
There’s a school of thought (“The Deluded Optimist School”) that turns negative experiences into ‘teachable moments’. Drummer Boy embraces that philosophy. “Look, Mummy! A letter C!” he squeals with delight. Or, with giddy excitement, “I made a letter S like ssssss for Snake!” (He loves phonics at nursery school.)
He was particularly proud that yesterday he produced something that he described as “an aeroplane with a horn like a rhino.” Cautiously, but curiously, I peered into the murky depths. It was uncanny. I really couldn’t argue with his description. That toilet bowl is his own personal Rorschach Test
Six-year-old Air Guitar is more self-sufficient at wiping, but I get the occasional invitation to “come and have a check, Mum!” Even Z-listers get better invites than that.
His best description, a few years ago now, but forever etched on my mind, came after he peered down the loo to see his day’s work, and sang out happily: “It de same colour as my big bruvver’s hair!”
But with Lead Vocal (he of the poo-brown hair), it is I who sings the chorus, every time he exits the bathroom: “Did you wipe?”, “Did you flush?”, “Did you wash your hands?” It’s a rare day he can answer yes to all three queries. *Sigh*
And if it’s not poop in the toilet I’m dealing with, it’s things that should not be there. A full roll of three-ply toilet paper, toy cars, a drinking bottle (never to be used again) and – expensively – Drummer Boy put a Wii controller in the toilet once. (Oh, I just got it! A wee controller. He was just confused!) All I can say is they get none of this behaviour from me. [Looks accusingly at The Roadie]. I have flushed many things down the toilet (my career, my patience, my sanity), but never a game controller or an aeroplane with a rhino horn.
I do apologise for all the toilet talk. I should probably have given a warning somewhere at the top of this post, but then I was worried no one would make it past the first line. I just wanted to (over)share the somewhat scatalogical ‘lyrics of my life’ with you.
Feel free to share this page with anyone else, friend or foe, who would like / needs/ deserves to read such a crappy post. (Perhaps send it as revenge to a first-time mother who keeps describing her baby’s poo in excruciating detail. We get it. It looks like chicken korma if you’re breastfeeding. Chicken tikka masala if you’re formula feeding. No we don’t need to see your camera roll.)