Wednesday, 29 May 2013


I'm messing with the plasticine even though my son has moved on to playing multi-story car park with the television stand.   There is an actual toy multi-story car park that we paid good money for less than a meter away from him, but never mind.

I'm busy making a pizza with the red, yellow and green bits when I sense a quietness come over the room. I look up to see Brendan standing stock still, knees slightly bent, a car in each hand.  His face is turning peuce as he braces himself.

I sigh quietly.

"Are you doing a poo poo?" I ask.

He smiles and points to his crotch.

"A doo doo," he confirms and goes back to his game.  The smell hits me.  Oh dear Christ!

I sigh again, more deeply this time, and rue the fact that my husband isn't here to negotiate with.

"Come on then," I jump up, "let's change your nappy."

No response, although the fleeting sideways glance suggests he understands me very well.

"Come on, upstairs, clean bum!"

I take him by the wrist and his whole body goes limp and then squirms in protest, releasing more of the offending odours.  Oh sweet Jesus that's bad!

He pulls this way and that as I pick him up and take him upstairs.  My eyes water.

He's calm now and so I set him down on the floor of his room as I prepare for a shocker: extra wipes, oh and a spare vest... just in case...

While my back is turned he has spotted the books on the shelves.  I hear the armchair creak and spin round to find him standing near its edge, wobbling precariously as he reaches up.

"ON YOUR BOTTOM!!" I cry, my standard instinctive response to his current furniture climbing phase, only this time I regret it instantly as he launches himself backwards onto his full bum with a resounding thud. He's safe, but at what cost to his nappy's defences?

I lay him on the changing table as he looks up innocently.  He hums Twinkle Twinkle to himself as I prepare myself for Armageddon. It doesn't disappoint.