Fingers.

I'm used to little fingers in and around my mouth.  Most of the time they're forcibly inserted for the purposes of making me pretend to eat them, eliciting giggles from both bratlets.  Sometimes it's to make a grab for my barbell, which has thus far (thankfully) been unsuccessful.  Other times it's to share food.  It's a regular occurrence.

So when Dude sat in my lap earlier while I was attempting to check my email, I didn't think twice when he shoved his stubby little finger in my mouth.

That's when I felt something squish.

I can tell you, I looked up from my email sharpish.  I pulled his finger out and saw with mounting horror something looking suspiciously like poo.  I'm frantically casting my eyes over his body, and I won't lie, I'm gagging a little at the thought that he's dipped that stubby little finger into the back of his nappy, when I realise that he's scraped bird poo (the lovely green goosey kind) off my shoe on the floor and decided to feed it to me.

It was bird shit.

In.

My.

Mouth.

In my actual mouth.

I can now verify that washing ones mouth out with soap is an unpleasant task.

(But not as unpleasant as leaving the bird poo in there.)