Reposted from The Inbuggering Diaries  

Look away folks. If you’re squeamish, have trouble with digestive talk, or discussion of body processes and their associated fluids … now is the time to find another blog to read, or a tv show to watch, or make a cup of tea. Just don’t keep reading. You have been warned …

Poo. We all do it.  It’s natural.  It stinks, it’s messy, and yet it’s one of the few things we have in common with royalty. Everyone poos.

Except toddlers.

From an early age, poo becomes a weapon.  From strategic farts in the face as they’re climbing across you, to that hand in the nappy followed by abstract art, to full on withholding, making you look up every remedy for constipation you can come across.  It’s dependent on what they ate for colour, consistency and odour.  These are also integral tools in the ongoing battle between parent and child, where your only tools are nappies, a strengthening resistance to foul smells, and the ability to have a whole conversation with your significant other about what could possible have caused that colour/stench.  There’s also the conversations with other parents that before you had kids probably wouldn’t have been decent dinner conversation … now, they pop out over wine time.

Poo is the Toddler Weapon of Mass Destruction.  They have it, they know it’s powerful, and they use it at every opportunity.  

And so begins my story. Somewhere, in the dark, complex place that is my toddler’s mind (No names mentioned, but let’s call her Schmemelie for fun), she’s discovered the ultimate power that is sphincter control.  (You were warned earlier, this is a poo story. Back out now if you’re faint of heart.) For 3, constant days, I was blessed with a bloated, grumpy toddler who refused to poop.  Who the f*** knows why?  I’ve tried getting into her head.  It’s a scary place.  Now you don’t question, you accept.

Schmemelie’s mood was not improving, and despite the amount of prunes, pureed prunes, and prune juice she was fed, it resulted in nothing more than skidmarks. I tried everything in the book.  We’re talking brown sugar water, we’re talking massage of belly, pressure points and reflexology, warm olive oil and still, nothing.  Seriously, this kid is a champion at stubborness – she’s going to be a master criminal, a lawyer or an engineer – based purely on her determination. If that child does not want to do something, she won’t do it. End of discussion. (The teenage years are looking like so much fun … ) 3 days of a grumpy, gas filled, poo blocked toddler brings you to pretty much exhaustion point with a side order of kill me now.

That is, until last night.  It’s not uncommon for either monster to wake around 1.30am and have a case of ‘extreme wriggle-itis’.  However, Schmemelie decided to wake and have a screaming fit (we later put this down to belly cramps) and well, being a powerchucker of some note, of course this led to an epic vomit. All 3 of us were covered at some stage, and the result was the 2am load of washing …

Calming her down was a problem, and I decided that as we were both coated in a lovely mix of milk, dinner and the assorted contents of her stomach, now would be a great idea to shower her in warm water and calm her down.  So of course, both of us stripped off and we’re standing in the shower … and then …

There was a warm sensation on my arm, just below her bottom, followed by the overpowering stench of what can only be described as something that possibly rolled in something dead, then died and was exposed to the ideal stench producing conditions in an open sewer next to a pig farm caused me to almost lose my stomach contents.  I yelled to M to open the toilet door, and somehow made it (stark naked, holding a dripping toddler) to the toilet without injuring myself, or the screaming child in my hands.  Precariously, I held her over the toilet and then, the floodgates opened.  Or at least, they opened for the first time. There was poo.  Poo everywhere.  The stench was unforgettable.  Then the silence (seriously, growing up in cyclone country should have taught me that there’s always an eye to a storm).  I picked her up and cuddled her and started moving out of the toilet to shower her.

I made it as far as the bathroom door before the apoocalypse began again.  This time, it was moving with force and vengance, and brown, smelly splatter patterns made it over the walls and doors, as well as creating a slippery, smelly trip hazard on the floors. It was like a murder scene, only poo …Round 2 was just as vicious as round 1, and by this stage the look on her face was no longer one of pain, but rather of relief with a small amount of shock.  Finally, the tidal wave of poo ended.   I carefully tiptoed back through the shit bomb that was now my house and took her back to the shower.  In the mean time, husband collected cleaning products and bless his socks, started the poo removal process.  I bathed my little poo shooter, dressed her in PJs, handed her to husband and started my own clean up.

She vomits again – this time we think due to shock – and requires another change of clothes.  This time though she calms down and drinks some water, and the colour slowly comes back to her face.  She snuggles down, and soon starts snoring.  The apoocalypse is over. (For her).

2.30am. Load of washing goes on, bathroom is scrubbed, toilet scrubbed, floors cleaned, numerous checks on sleeping child, a case of extreme wriggle-itis diagnosed in the other child with extended downstairs play time.

3am. Bed.  Sweet, blessed bed.  With a lingering odour of lemon cleaning products, open sewer and a touch of nightclub toilet, and rocked to sleep by the dulcet tones of the washing machine on spin cycle ..

3.45am (or thereabouts) Exhaustion kicks in and sleep finally arrives…

7.30am.  Reenergised, reinvigorated toddler wakes with a smile and much less attitude.  Pass me the coffee… and a scrubbing brush.  It seems we missed a few spots …

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