Wipe

“Mommy, ______!” I heard Daniel calling from his bedroom during nap time.  I couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but from the tone, I thought it might actually warrant checking on him.  He’d been in there for an hour, but judging from all the chatter, laughing, and toys banging, hadn’t slept a wink.

I paused the science-y youtube video I was watching whilst doing the dishes (because if you’re going to do the dishes, you might as well watch something on the ipad at the same time so it’s not so mindless and boring) and put my ear to his door.

“MOMMY I NEED A WIPE!!!!!!!!”  He yelled.

I couldn’t think of a single situation in which needing a wipe during nap time could possibly be a good thing.

As I opened the door, he held his hands out over the cot rail to show me, and then told me that he wasn’t wearing any pants.  Indeed, he wasn’t.  He was wearing a nappy though. At least that’s something, especially considering the smell that assaulted my nose as soon as I stepped into his room.

Here we go again.  This time, I immediately knew why he wanted a wipe.  I had no grand illusions about him getting into chocolate or Vegemite.  I knew those outstretched arms and parted fingers were indeed covered in poop.  Not from a leaky nappy, or a number three, but from my silly little boy shoving his hands down his nappy after doing a poop.  You’d think he would have learned his lesson last time, but no….

After disinfecting him, I went back to the scene of the crime to assess the damage.  There on the bed, sat his socks, covered in poop.  How exactly do socks bear the brunt of a poop incident?  The cot itself had a little bit of poop on the bars, clearly from him holding on as he called out to me.  The sheets had the tiniest bit of poop.  But the socks?  Covered in it.

I can only deduce that he thought socks bore a mighty resemblance to towels and used them in to clean his hands.  They would have already been off of his feet, he takes them off every singe nap time. Judging by the amount of poop on the socks, he did a pretty good job, but in the wiping process, smeared the little bit that remained on his hands all over them.

Seriously Daniel, please stop putting your hands down your pants!

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The mid-semester test

The mid-semester test was worth 20% of my entire grade for Biodiversity.  TWENTY percent!  I fed the kids as soon as they woke up so I’d have plenty of time to get to uni an hour early for some pre-test study sans all of the “mommy, play with me! Mommy, when will you be finished?!” whinging from the kids.

“Alright kids, lets go pick out some clothes.” I told them after breakfast.

And then I felt the rumbling.  It came on suddenly, vicious and without warning.

“Uh…I’ll just go to the bathroom first, then we’ll pick out some clothes.” I told them as I nearly pooped myself getting the 8 or so feet from the table to the bathroom.

I sat there for a while, freeing the contents of my stomach whilst feeling like I had 1o hungry pirañas all competing to eat me from the inside, making me sweat and sit on the toilet in a nearly fetal position.

“Ok, let’s go pick out your clothes.” I told them again when I was done.

And then it hit again.

And then again.

And then again.

I sent Aaron a freaking out text. “Boo, I’ve got the trots! I’ve gone 4 times in the last 20 minutes! How am I going to take a test when I can’t even get away from the toilet?!”

Luckily, it subsided after that.  I managed to drop the kids off, later than planned, but still with a bit of time to study (or run to the toilet if needed) before the test.

Driving away from Daniel’s daycare, the petrol light came on. That’s ok, I have enough time to get petrol and still get to uni on time for the test, I thought to myself, annoyed that I’d forgotten to get petrol the day before.  Seriously, I still have baby brain.  I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached.

It was right then that I realised I forgot to transfer my wallet from my backpack (which I use as a nappy bag) to my school bag. Crap. Not to mention I’d need my ID to take the test anyway.

It’s ok, if I’m quick, I can get home, get the wallet, get petrol, and still get to uni on time.

And I did.

By 1 minute.

I finished the test in 10 minutes and got 90%.  The average was 50%.  I’m not trying to brag, I’m just super happy that I didn’t poop my pants, and studied enough to get a good grade.

As a reward, I went to the hairdresser to do something about the dirty dishwater coloured roots that extend halfway down my head followed by the blonde foils I got way back in the beginning of October.  I was also in desperate need of a proper haircut.  I’ve been attempting to cut my own side swept fringe but keep ending up looking like my hair got caught in a pencil sharpener.  I asked for half a head of blonde foils, after internally debating myself as to whether I should go light or dark this winter.

This is what I got:

Don’t get me wrong, it looks ok, but so not what I asked for. I asked for blonde. Specifically, I asked for a warm blonde tone, but not brassy, and definitely not ashy. Somehow that translated to dying my entire head brown and then putting just one shade of blonde foils through the top.  Usually when I get blonde foils they use three different shades so it looks more natural. Sigh.

But that’s nothing, hair grows, colour fades. Whatever.

The worst part is the ticket.  Not so much the ticket itself, I deserve the ticket, but the fact that I got it speeding through a school zone.  Yes, a school zone.  I am horrified that I sped through a school zone.  In my haste to get to uni before test time, I didn’t even think about the school zone on the four lane road I was driving on.  The normal speed limit is 70k’s an hour.  The 8-9:30 school time speed limit is 40k’s an hour.  You get my drift here.  That is a very big difference, which comes with a very big fine that I got in the mail the other day and nearly fell over when I saw it.

But as I said, I deserve the over $500 fine, and the 5 demerit points it carries, but I’m disgusted that I failed to even remotely think about anyone other than myself at that moment of time, and the school zone didn’t even reach my radar.

I definitely won’t make that mistake again.

Also, I think I might be a nervous pooper. I sure hope not. We’ll see when exam time comes again….

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Ball in the toilet

The weather has been so nice recently. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. Or making obnoxious noises. Bloody birds. We can wear shorts without being too cold or dripping with sweat. So of course we want to be outside.

We don’t have a yard (or even a balcony), so we invite ourselves to Grandma’s house when we feel like getting our hands dirty. The backyard is filled with all sorts of kids’ things. A slide, cubby house, tricycles, mini trampoline, etc. Not to mention my vegetable garden.

My purple pea plant. It’s so big it grew over it’s support fence. The pea pods are a deep purple colour. Awesome, I know.

The kids also love seeing Grandma (and YaYa, when she’s there) when we visit. Hannah especially. Hannah adores Grandma.

Last time we went, Grandma wasn’t there. No worries, I have a key. We played anyway. I got out Hannah’s tunnel and the kids spent most of their time pushing balls inside the tunnel and giggling.

Melissa & Doug Happy Giddy Tunnel

I got all this stuff before Daniel was born. Hence all the pink and purple…

“Mommy, I have to go poo poo!” Hannah yelled. She clearly needed to go right then, too busy playing to notice or acknowledge the need to go before she really needed to.

At home she’d just let herself into the bathroom. But at Grandma’s house, the door handles tower above her head. She can’t even remotely reach them. I had to go with her.

“Ok, I just have to get Daniel. Just hold it a little longer baby!”

Daniel was in the tunnel. He saw me coming towards him and decided to crawl as fast as he could to the middle, giggling as he went.

“DANIEL! Come on bud, you have to come out now.” He kept going towards the other side. Thinking I could outsmart a 1 year old,  I ran over to the other end of the tunnel to nab him and bring him inside with us. I couldn’t leave him out there by himself. He likes to climb the cement steps that have no fence on the sides and could easily fall face first off the top. I know because when Hannah was little, she did that once. Except there happened to be a wheelbarrow full of weeds right next to the stairs, so she didn’t get hurt.

As I got to the end of the tunnel, he giggled and crawled to the other side again. Did I mention how cheeky my son is?

“Mommy, it’s too late!” Hannah was grabbing her butt through her pants upset that there was something besides her butt to grab. (I’m glad she wasn’t grabbing inside her pants….)

“Ok baby, I’m just trying to get Daniel, hold the rest in if you can!”

Cheeky boy was still going end to end in the tunnel, giggling all the while. I picked up one end of the tunnel and held it in the air so he couldn’t run around it anymore.

“Ha! Got you!” He tried to escape, but my grip was too strong. I carried him inside with one of the pink balls in his hand.

I looked in Hannah’s underwear. 1 little nugget.

I pulled down her underpants, nugget still inside and put her on the little potty. Daniel was running around at the other end of the bathroom, pulling on all the towels.

I opened the lid of the toilet and brought the underwear over the bowl, shaking to remove the nugget.

“NO DANIEL!!!!”

He came out of nowhere. Cheeky little ninja boy.

I could see the bright pink ball in my peripheral vision, quickly going from chubby baby hand to water in the toilet bowl.

I reached out with the hand that wasn’t holding the underwear in attempt to grab the ball before it went in the toilet.

But it all happened so fast.

I missed.

Just as I reached out with my non-underwear holding hand, the poo nugget fell from the undies, hitting my arm at the same time the ball hit the toilet water.

Sigh.

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The ninja nuggets

Hannah is finally starting to poop on the potty. It’s only been…hmm…I can’t even remember, but way too long. I’ve cleaned up way too much poo. Ick. Sigh.

And by starting, I mean only just. As in the day before yesterday. Seems marshmallows are worth sitting on the toilet for.  Especially the pink ones.

This morning started out well. There was no vomit (because yesterday, there was lots. Ick. I hate vomit. But you all know that well enough by now), Hannah was drinking and eating and playing.

But then I smelled something. Something icky. Something poop-ish. Ick. I thought it was Daniel. A quick smell through his clothes proved otherwise.

“Hannah, do you have to poop?”

“No.”

“Are you just doing stinky toots?”

“No.”

“Who’s making those smells?” Hannah asked me. Usually she admits when she farts. Or poops. Or both. I didn’t think it was her, I thought Daniel must just be farting and not pooping.

I kept smelling it. Hannah’s back was to me.

And there it was. A protrusion from her pants. A clear as day poo coming out (or already out) outline. Ick.

I took her to the bathroom and checked her underpants. A poo nugget had already been freed in there. I stood her on the toilet, one foot on each side and pulled her underwear down, and towards the front of the toilet, in one quick fluid movement. That’s the best way to not get poo on myself, herself, and/or our surroundings. The poo nugget dropped nicely in the toilet without touching anything. Yeah, underpants emptying is a good skill to have. It’s taken me a long time to develop it. Sigh.

“Are you done pooping? Do you need to do some more?” I asked her.

“I need to do some more.” She told me. I sat her down on the toilet, her special I-don’t-want-my-child-to-fall-in smaller seat fitted to the inside of the normal seat.

I stepped towards the door to go get the iPad. Watching Mickey Mouse helps her poop. Whatever works right?

I felt something under my foot. It didn’t feel like a towel. Or clothes. Or a rubber ducky, a bottle of shampoo, a washcloth, a hairbrush, or anything that may be accidentally lying about the bathroom floor (and by accidentally, I mean a toddler and/or cheeky baby put it there).

It felt wrong. Like when I stepped on it, it was one height, and then it shrank as the weight of my foot beat down on it.

I lifted my foot, panic filling me. I knew what it must be. But I was still hoping it wasn’t.

I looked down. And there it was. A squished poo nugget. Ick.

I saw the nugget from her underwear fall into the toilet. How on earth did that one get there? Oh my gosh, I stepped in poo. Human poo. Ick.

I wiped it up with some toilet paper and flushed it away before immediately scrubbing the floor with disinfectant. Seriously, how did it get there?

A few hours later Hannah told me she had to poop.

“It’s coming out of my bottom!” She screeched.

We ran to the bathroom. Part of it was already loose in her underpants. We did the whole standing-on-toilet-seat thing again. Again, the poo went in the toilet and then I sat her down and headed towards the door.

Splat. Oh frick. Not again. 

I picked up my foot. Crap (literally). Those darn ninja nuggets struck again. How could I step on poop TWICE in one day?!?!?! HOW DID THEY GET THERE???!!!! Luckily I was wearing socks. Both times.

Sigh.

Maybe I’m not so skilled at dropping poop from Hannah’s underpants into the toilet. Double sigh.

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“What’s this Mommy?”

Last week it was really hot.  Like 35 degrees (95f).  And humid. Ick.  Did I mention we don’t have any airconditioning?  Anyway, the kids and I were disgustingly hot and sticky, so we got the pedestal fan out of Aaron and my bedroom and planted it in the playroom (aka the living room…).  I stripped Daniel down to his nappy and Hannah went one step further, choosing to be completely starkers.  We laid on the living room floor, arms out wide, relishing the kinda cool air from the fan.

A little while later, Hannah held something up. It was small, about the size of a pinky fingernail. And dark.

“What’s this Mommy?” She asked me, inspecting it.

She didn’t really let me answer. “It’s a poo nugget,” she stated.

I laughed.  How could I not laugh? “It’s not a poo nugget sweetie!  Maybe it’s a raisin?”

I went over to investigate anyway.  I didn’t want her eating random raisins off the floor.

Then I saw it.  Next to her foot there was indeed a poo nugget. It must have fallen off the tiny piece in her hand when she picked it up. Oh my gosh, my daughter was holding up a piece of poo.  In her hand. EEEEEWWWWWW!

“Oh, it is a poo nugget!”

I got some toilet paper from the bathroom and picked up the nugget and the disgusting nuggety fragment from her grubby little hand and flushed it down the toilet, washing our hands vigorously afterwards.

A bit later she was next to the couch.”Oh, there’s another poo nugget.” She told me.

I didn’t doubt her for a second this time.  I looked all around, but all I found was a piece of fluff.

“Do you mean this?”  I asked her.

“Yeah, it’s a poo nugget.”

Thank goodness it wasn’t.  I threw the fluff away.

The next day I was sitting on the couch.  Something icky kept filling my nose.  Something poopy.  I sniffed around like a dog on the scent of a rabbit.  I got down on all fours, nose to the ground and moved forward toward the scent as it got stronger.  Finally I came to the edge of the couch.  The smell was strong there.  I looked all around, but couldn’t see anything.  It didn’t help that our carpet is a disgusting 80s brown, shaggy thing.

But there it was, under the couch.  Under the couch?  How in the world does a poo nugget get under the couch?  I’m not sure I want to know.  But I was in the playroom/living room with them when Hannah had her nappy off, and I certainly didn’t see her pooping.  Nor did I see her putting anything under the couch.  Not to mention that poo nugget was about 10 feet away from the other poo nugget.  WTF? I’m not sure I want to know….

On the plus side, ever since that day, Hannah wants to wear underpants. But, she doesn’t actually want to sit on the potty, so I’ve been spending a lot of time with a towel and the carpet cleaner.  Sigh.

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Oh my gosh, ICK!

Potty training is not going well.  Hannah refuses to sit on the potty, or even wear her underwear.  So, I’ve decided to not make a big deal of it and train her when she thinks she’s ready.  In the mean time, I’ve been doing some pre-training things.  Fine, one thing.  I’ll work on the rest later….

Hannah used to be petrified of her poop.  The first time I tried to potty train her months and months ago, she pooped in the potty on the very first try.  But then she looked at it.  She’d never seen poop before.  The thought to show her her poop had never crossed my mind.  She freaked out.  It was like that poop turned into some sort of evil, crazy, I’m-gonna-eat-you poo monster.  She didn’t want to sit on the potty after that.

I started showing her her poop.  Now she wants to see it every single time.  So I upped the ante.  I started taking her to the bathroom and dumping the poo out of her nappy in to the toilet.  Then I shut the lid and flush.

All was going well until it happened.

I opened the lid, dumped the nappy contents….

Plop.  Splash.  Oh.  My.  Gosh. A drop of toilet water attacked me.  It came right out of that poo-laden potty and hit me.  In the face.  Right next to my mouth.  EW!!!!!!!!

How to scare a 2 year old

Hannah loves Daniel.  She constantly wants to cuddle and kiss and hold him.  When he’s hungry, she wants to go and get him food.  She is forever coming up to the couch when I’m feeding him, holding out her hands, and saying “Come here baby Daniel, give me a cuddle.”  But she does it in that goochy-goochy-goo-I’m-like-100-and-I’m-going-to-pinch-your-cheeks old-lady voice.  It’s really cute, but also really hard not to laugh at.

During one of these episodes, I laid Daniel on the couch and let Hannah give him a little cuddle.

PPPPPFFFFTTTTT!!!  Daniel did the loudest, wettest, longest poo you can possibly imagine.

Hannah’s face instantly turned from happy/goochy-goochy-goo, to frightened.  She actually jumped a little.  She looked at me for reassurance, and quickly backed away from Daniel, her eyes wide as saucers.

“It’s ok Hannah,” I told her “Daniel just did a poo poo, that’s all.”  She didn’t look convinced.  Nor did she want anymore Daniel cuddles that day.

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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.

`

The wayward nugget

Her feet are kicking.  Her shoulders are trying desperately to wiggle out from under my hand and pop up so she can turn over.  Her torso is turns into a super bendy wiggle worm.  All extremities are flailing as I try my hardest to keep her laying down on the change mat, her feet away from her pooey bottom.  One hand is busy holding her down, the other trying to keep her feet away from poo as well as moving the pooey nappy away from her.  And then it happens.  A nugget is accidentally set free.  It rolls out of the nappy and onto the change mat.  Feet are flailing.  They narrowly escape turning an interesting shade of browney-green.  I dodge the flailing extremities and go in with a wipe.  Oh no, the wayward nugget escapes me and falls on the floor.  I can’t look for it now, there is a flailing baby with her bare pooey bottom hanging out laying (unwillingly) on top of a table.  No, I have to finish with Hannah first, then go in search of the wayward nugget.  Ok, Hannah’s bottom is clean, bottom creamed, nappied, and pantsed (is that a word?  Oh well, now it is).  I look under the table.  No sign of the nugget.  Bugger, where has it gone?  How far can a poo nugget roll?  What if Hannah finds it first?  Will she try to eat it?  Will she try to squish it in her pudgy little baby hands?  I can’t find it anywhere.  Inside, I’m freaking out a little.  The search continues.  It doesn’t help that the 70s/80s carpet is poo brown.  I can’t vacuum, that probably wouldn’t fare so well for the vacuum itself.   Freak out continues.  I peer under the freestanding fin oil heater.  The wayward nugget stares right back at me.  I can almost hear it laughing.  I move the heater, go in with a wipe, and finally, the wayward nugget is contained.   Who knew that motherhood would include elusive hide and seek games with wayward nuggets?  Not me.