One of those days….

I looked at the clock.  7:30am.  Hannah was stirring, making cute little baby (ok toddler, I’ll try to stop kidding myself) noises, talking to her dollies.  I let her play for a while and then it went quiet.  Not like the “I’ve just fallen back asleep” quiet.  I don’t know how I knew she wasn’t asleep, but I knew.  I guess Moms just know such things.  It was more of a worried (my worry, not hers) quiet.  A something’s happened quiet.  Or maybe an “I’m doing something cheeky” quiet.  I wasn’t sure, but I decided to go in.  Usually I would assume she’d gone back to sleep and let her sleep on.

I slowly opened the door.  I suppose there was a chance that my intuition was chucking a sickie (pretending to be sick and taking the day off for those of you not used to such Aussie lingo).  Or that my intuition is just a little special anyway.  I walked into her room, a big smile on my face and peered into the cot.

My heart dropped.  I nearly wet myself.  I think I lost 2 years off my life.  My eyes continued searching the cot.  She wasn’t there.  The room was silent.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my entire life.

Busted!!!

A tiny movement caught my eye.  My heart was still pounding.  I was still silently freaking out.  But then I saw her.  She was sitting on the floor of her room, clothes and books scattered all around her, like a tornado had recently been through her room.  My bible was on her lap, it’s pages being not so gently turned by a mischevious toddler, excited by the fact that she was now in possession of a book I never let her play with.  It’s pages are so thin and fragile, I didn’t want her to break it.  Silently, she sat there, in awe of the book that Mommy reads to her every day before bed.

“You cheeky little baby!”  She turned and gave me the cheekiest little cute smile that she could possibly muster.  “How did you climb out of your cot?”

Luckily she didn’t hurt herself.  I’ve never had to put the cot rail up before.  Usually she

Surrounding her was a mountain of chaos

wore a sleeping bag to bed.  Not for climb preventing, but because she starts the night at one end of the cot and ends up at the other, losing her blankets in the process.  Last night though, it was really hot, too hot for the sleeping bag.  I put her to bed in light-weight pants and a t-shirt.  Perfect climbing attire, apparently.

Later that morning:

Why is there a raisin floating in the bath?  Did cheeky baby take a raisin with her?

Where did that pea come from? Hannah was squatting.  She momentarily stopped playing.  OH. My. Goodness.  She is POOPING in the bath!  SHE IS POOPING IN THE BATH!  Oh man, what do I do? It kept coming.  When she finished, she started playing again, oblivious to the fact that her pristine bath was now full of excretement, carrots, raisins, peas, and corn casually floating on the surface, looking like that hadn’t ever travelled through an entire digestive system.

“GRANDMA!!!!!!!!!”  I freaked out a little.  A lot, whatever, I won’t lie.  She didn’t hear me, she is a little deaf.  “GRANDMA!!!”  louder this time.  She came in, rather quickly for an 80 year old woman with hip trouble.  The urgent note in my voice must have tipped her off.

She looked at Hannah who was stark naked, standing next to the bath, clearly longing to actually be in the bath.  Grandma gave me a puzzled look.

“There’s been an accident….”  I pointed towards the bath.  Grandma laughed.  This is SO not funny right now!!

It would have been easy to clean up had the offending bodily waste been nuggets.  But no, it wasn’t nuggets.  It would have been easy if it were a log.  No, not that easy either.  No, this poo, this-first-time-she’s-ever-pooed-in-the-bath poo was runny.  It was everywhere.  It was like someone had put a kilo (ok, that is an exaggeration) of that flaky brown fish food in the tub and then threw in some pea, corn and carrot mix just for kicks and giggles.

Well, I wasn’t giggling.  How am I going to clean this up???

“Just drain the bath.”  Grandma told me.  I kept staring in the bath, unable to actually put my hand in to reach the plug.  You want me to put my hand in there?  With the POOP??!!!  My hand is going to be in the same water as the POOP?!

“Do you want me to do it?” Grandma asked.

“No.”  Well, I kinda did, but I had to woman up and do it myself.  I hesitated and then reached in, an “oh my goodness this is disgusting” look plastered all over my face.  The water started draining from the bath but slowed after all the chunky bits settled in the drain.  I can’t look, it’s too disgusting. I grabbed my razor; the only thing handy that was disposable and useful in such a situation.  The handle end proved good at stirring up the chunky bits, allowing the water to go down the drain without my hand having to once again enter the contaminated bath water.

A wipe proved useful in removing the chunky bits (aka peas, corn, carrots and raisins).  Everything was washed, scrubbed, and put back.  The bedraggled baby was put back in the tub, and bath time recommenced.  Please don’t poop, please don’t poop.

It’s gonna be one of those days.

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