“Do you remember becoming a bit obsessed with poo when I was born?” I texted my mother the other night.
“No because I’m squeamish” came the swift reply. So mum, I hope you’re not reading this, because I’m about to tell the story I wanted to tell you two nights ago.
As Grimsvotn was spewing volcanic ash into British airspace, Rod was experiencing another eruption on our living room floor. The wee man’s favourite trick is to do just enough to alert you to the fact his nappy needs changed then save his best efforts for the exact moment his bum is bare. I tried to warn Rod, but he was too gung ho. It became gunge-ho. He used a whole roll of kitchen towel, wipes, two nappies and a little bit of carpet cleaner.
The weirdest thing is that we were both delighted. The frequency of newborns’ bowel movements can be a real cause for concern. I know this because, on three separate occasions, I have discussed baby poo at length with a friend of mine who’s also just become a mum. When we were pregnant we discussed much cooler things. But she totally trumps me (sorry) and she is remaining nameless so I can relay her story.
The first time she changed her tot’s nappy when she got back from the hospital the baby projectile pooed all over the wall. That, and her husband’s face, made her laugh so hard she wet herself.
Now that’s some funny shit.