I had an NCT committee meeting on Sunday night, just a general catch up to go over recent and upcoming events, and while I was there I received a text from Himself. Apparently, Dude had taken advantage of my absence and floated one in the bath. Not even a small one. A hefty, full size poo. In the tub. Which of course meant that Himself had to fish it out, drain the tub and shower the boy. I, of course, found this highly amusing.
Until yesterday.
I really needed to wash my hair, and Dude had painted himself with the Nutella from his toast, so I thought to save time and take him in with me. He likes to sit under the showerhead anyway, so I got on with washing my hair while he played with his dinosaur. (This is not a euphemism. He keeps a t-rex in the bathroom for this very purpose.) I got out to throw on some clothes and planned to grab him once dressed.
That's when he started shouting.
Now, I figured the water had gone cold. This has happened before. Or, there was the time that he fooled with the taps and had the shower running at three million degrees. So it could have been hot, rather than cold. Unfortunately, this was not the issue.
His hands were covered in poo. From the mountain of poo on the floor of the tub.
This might be the time to mention that he had already done a poo that morning. Not even a small one, mind you. I washed the poo away, soaped the boy, rinsed the boy, soaped the t-rex, rinsed the t-rex, and went back to the bedroom to re-attempt the clothing procedure. Then he started to shout again.
Cold shower? Unfortunately not.
I washed away the second mountain of poo, which at least this time he had not put his hands into, and went back to the bedroom.
I wish I could say that was the end of it. We repeated the above procedure twice more. FOUR POOS IN THE SHOWER IN THE SPACE OF FIVE MINUTES, and this is after the one he'd already done that morning. Not a one of them was small. There's not a nappy in this world that could have contained what came out of him yesterday morning. Frankly, I was a little impressed. A lot disgusted, but a little impressed.
Hashtag boys are gross.
Until yesterday.
I really needed to wash my hair, and Dude had painted himself with the Nutella from his toast, so I thought to save time and take him in with me. He likes to sit under the showerhead anyway, so I got on with washing my hair while he played with his dinosaur. (This is not a euphemism. He keeps a t-rex in the bathroom for this very purpose.) I got out to throw on some clothes and planned to grab him once dressed.
That's when he started shouting.
Now, I figured the water had gone cold. This has happened before. Or, there was the time that he fooled with the taps and had the shower running at three million degrees. So it could have been hot, rather than cold. Unfortunately, this was not the issue.
His hands were covered in poo. From the mountain of poo on the floor of the tub.
This might be the time to mention that he had already done a poo that morning. Not even a small one, mind you. I washed the poo away, soaped the boy, rinsed the boy, soaped the t-rex, rinsed the t-rex, and went back to the bedroom to re-attempt the clothing procedure. Then he started to shout again.
Cold shower? Unfortunately not.
I washed away the second mountain of poo, which at least this time he had not put his hands into, and went back to the bedroom.
I wish I could say that was the end of it. We repeated the above procedure twice more. FOUR POOS IN THE SHOWER IN THE SPACE OF FIVE MINUTES, and this is after the one he'd already done that morning. Not a one of them was small. There's not a nappy in this world that could have contained what came out of him yesterday morning. Frankly, I was a little impressed. A lot disgusted, but a little impressed.
Hashtag boys are gross.
Comments
Post a Comment