Major trauma has unfolded here in our humble abode the past few days. No, we've not been slowly poisoned by our substandard boiler (though that probably isn't too far off...), nor have we been sadistically tortured in the middle of the night by our single, childless neighbour Dan downstairs (although this too probably isn't as unlikely as we would wish). Nope....it's been the advent of good old fashioned 'poo poo manoeuvers' which have had us pulling our hair out and running for cover under the duvet.
Cherubic little Egg has suddenly developed the petrifyingly, lightening-quick speed talent of whipping off his DIRTY nappy in under 5 seconds flat. That would be okay if he were doing so in a self-contained enclosure with showers and under the watchful eye of a hired nanny. As it happens, when this behaviour occurs while you are sitting down to tea, in the middle of dinner, or just settling down to watch a film on the sofa, it is not so nice. It is horrid.
Mr. 'I love my nappies and refuse to be potty-trained' it seems, does NOT like wearing nappies with a number two in them (or several number twos by the look of it). So instead of sidling up to one of us and requesting a nappy change (he is never shy when it comes to requesting duties from his devoted admirers and guardians) like he used to do in the past, he now whips off his clothes and comes running to find us, poo-smeared but jubilant, and presents us with his handiwork.
We (read I) have been so traumatised the past few days that i've been unable to even write about it. I grew up in a family of demure little girls (okay okay i hear you all laughing as i include the word 'demure' in the same sentence as an 'A-K' female - but believe it or not my three sisters and i were the picture of ladylike pleasantness and innocence those many years ago - truly we were!) who at the very most 'tinkled' now and again. No wonder little girls and little boys can't stand each other. I shudder to think what we would have done had we been exposed to such behaviour by a willy-wearing playmate.
Now we have a 'poo problem' throughout our flat. It is on the blue carpet in the bedroom, it is on poor Ollie Dumpies long johns, it is on the bathmat downstairs, it is smeared on surfaces we can't even find but merely catch a whiff of! The smell just never leaves and no amount of my Agent Provocateur perfume or Aromatherapy Associates Lavendar Room Sprays seems to be doing the trick. I want to run away to a spa and never come back. I want to fly up into that giant Starbucks in the Sky and hide forever in a big brown comfy sofa with my Vogue and a double-strength Latte....i even bloody want to jump into "The Sound of Music" and prance around like an uncoordinated 7th sibling. I want outta here!!!!
Yesterday Jay went on another job interview. As much as i try and sabotage this quest for work (hiding his tie...fashioning his hair into odd shapes with hair gel...allowing the babies to scream in the background while he's on the phone with recruitment agents....)it appears as though it's inevitable. And very soon. So soon that i find myself starting to tremble at odd moments. I've developed a nervous laugh and can often be overheard mumbling to myself about things which don't make sense.
Friends, i have begun the decent into childcare hell and i've looked up and noticed that i am alone. No glass slippers are in sight to bail me out lest i get captured in an avalanche of poo. I am afraid it is time to put away the lipgloss, dismantle the hair straighteners and bid adieu to my stilletos. There is no turning back.
Ohai
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