Linking up with Trish from My Little Drummer Boys
As a Registered Nurse, I have seen my fair share of poo. In fact, I thought I’d seen it all. I’ve dealt with caked on poo, bloody poo, watery poo, elephant turds, pellets and black poo. I’ve ended up wearing it, I’ve walked in it, I’ve had it wiped on me, I’ve had it thrown at me and one night, almost mistook a smear of it for chocolate. You name it, I’ve seen it. And truthfully it only gets worse the older you get.
We are taught that what goes in must come out and what it looks like upon exit can indicate a problem. Good bowel health is important and as mothers we become obsessed by it. What’s normal? What’s not? Breast Milk poo, Formula poo, Solids poo, Sultanas DON’T digest. Neither does corn. The slider, the poo-plosion, we’ve all been there. Been caught attempting to clean up a squirming infant while trying not to make the mess worse, no change of clothes and baby covered from head to toe.
I’ve been there, done that, I’m still going through it. I feel your pain. In fact, its not uncommon to see me running down the hallway of our house to the bathroom with a poo covered Mr Giggles, arms outstretched in front of me, baby with a bewildered look on his face. The only way to fix the problem is hose him down. Unfortunately.
We are currently toilet training Hurricane Boy and for the majority of it, he is going well. He’s been going all day (mainly at pre-school) with only the occasional accident, and they usually occur because he’s caught up in some activity.
But I digress, let me set the scene…
Nursey Mum in Mr Giggles’ room, getting him dressed after his bath. Hurricane boy is still in the bath, Handy Hubby showering next to him.
I’m goo-ing and gah-ing at Mr Giggles, and in the background I hear Hurricane Boy say “Daddy, present”. Handy Hubby, face full of soap replies “Yeah bubba” and puts his hand out.
I then hear screams. From both of them. Both are calling my name. Mr Giggles goes into his cot, half dressed and I head into the bathroom. I find Hurricane Boy screaming, crying, having a melt down pointing to the bath water. Handy Hubby still in the shower, screaming, dry-retching and holding a Hurricane Boy sized turd.
I yank Hurricane Boy out of the bath, throw him on the potty, rescue the turd from Handy Hubby’s hand and fish out the aqua turd that Hurricane Boy left behind. All the while trying not to wet myself laughing.
Needless to say, Handy Hubby didn’t see the funny side. On the plus side, we had our one and only successful poo on the potty.
Have you had any toilet training drama?
Funny stories of poo?
Saturday Morning. I’ve just finished work. I’m exhausted, have just managed to get home from work without crashing my shiny new car. All I want to do is go to bed.
Handy Hubby suggests that we head down to his old primary school’s fete. Take the boys, tire them out and be home by about lunch time.
Even though I was dog tired, I gave in. I would normally only sleep for a few hours after my last night shift anyway. It would be good for the boys to get out of the house and Saturday was shaping up to being a lovely day!
After a quick shower, we pack the kids up and throw them in the car. We head on down to the fete. It’s busy, seems like everyone in the area has come to the fete. There are kids EVERYWHERE!
As always there’s the cake stands, the sausage sizzle and games stalls but this is a fete with a difference!
There’s carnival games, a huge slippery slide (you know the ones you need a hessian sack for?), a massive book stall, a cafe AND coffee van (Heaven!), 2nd hand clothes stall, fairy floss stall, hairdresser and stage for showcasing the local talent. Oh my!
It would’ve been a good day. Would have.
As soon as we walked into the school grounds, the front tyre on the pram explodes! Rendering the whole thing useless. We couldn’t keep using it without potentially doing more damage and Mr Giggles was freaking out every time we tried to push it because we had to lay the pram back and lift up the front wheel. Just what I need!
We manage to find a replacement tyre at a local baby store and head on out. Mean while my eyes are hanging out of my head and my mood is getting worse by the second. We eventually make it home, and I make it to bed for a few hours.
Not sure why the tyre exploded but I have a distinct feeling it had something to do with Handy Hubby being “helpful” and filling the tyres with air…
As always, linking up with Jess for #IBOT
When I think about “Keeping Warm” I automatically think of wearing Handy Hubby’s track suit on a cold winters day, sitting in front of a heater with the boys around me and steaming mug of coffee in hand. The rain is pelting on the windows, its cold and miserable outside but inside it’s toasty, cosy and home. We’re all snuggled up on the lounge, under a blanket and rugged up.
Or laying in bed, snuggled up to Handy Hubby having a cuddle, the house is quiet and dark and we’re under the doona all toasty and warm. He’s my hot water bottle.
My mind goes back to all those weekends I braved the winter weather, wrapped up in multiple layers watching Handy Hubby play soccer. Im sitting on the side lines freezing, wearing a beanie, scarf, jumper, his jacket and wrapped in a blanket. I think about the morning we watched the Olympic Torch run by. We woke up at 4 am to make sure we got the best spot. It was freezing! Again I had multiple layers on, but what I remember most is him, cuddling me so that I’d stay warm.
I think about all the family get togethers where we’re all sitting around, multiple conversations running at the same time and over the top of each other. My father in the corner, telling his latest dirty joke, mum in the kitchen and I’m surrounded by family and friends. Handy Hubby sitting beside me and I’m warm.
I eventually realise, it’s not actual physical heat that’s keeping me warm, it’s him. It’s them. My little family that we’ve created, our extended family, our friends. They are my warmth. They are my heat. They defrost me from my chilliest of moods, they bring me light and heat, they make a bad day non-existent.
And it’s on those cold, blustery, miserable days when I’m at my lowest that I remember what’s at home, the fire in my life, keeping warm.