'Just a mum' Caroline Eyles has given up her 12-year career to become a traditional, stay-at-home housewife. With limited cooking skills, no previous experience with kids and currently learning how to displace dust, she's dumped her P45 into the bin and is winging it with a one-year-old…
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This? THIS was summink else, I have never seen anything like this before, and let's consider that I lived in India for six months - toilet stories were my after dinner talent! But I have not been privy to this venomous kind of baby poo still lingering in my senses now. My house needs fumigating, or just simply setting on fire even! Although I fear this might burn on as long as Buncefield.
So I can admit we have been quite lucky so far in regards to the explosive poos-up-the-back, in the instance that we have had none; largely because my daughter’s reflux milk has lead to constipation until the past few days. While I thought this was lucky, this has left me sufficiently under-rehearsed for what I can only describe as, the Titanic performance I was set to enact earlier today!
Titanic you ask? Yes, me, drowning in a mass of excrement.
While I could smell the whiff from afar, the Auto-pooper wasn't crying out of discomfort, so I made the mistake of thinking I could get away with leaving her to sit a little longer whilst I built up the courage to face what I thought was just yet another of what we call 'a quenelle' (ya' know-one of those posh spoonful thingies that they put on the side of the plate when serving up on Masterchef!)
Well, what a stupid stupid stupid idea, I will live to regret for the rest of my very sorry, nose-hair-singed life. With a full-efforted reverberating bounce back onto her bottom just moments later, an impossibly large particle shot up out the back of her top and I knew we were no longer out of the war zone, the explosion had hit, it had in fact shot up and hit our TV!!!! (I'm so sorry Mary Berry, you normally look so immaculate when my daughter's bum hasn't given out on your face!)
So, on putting Great British Bake Off on pause, I held my breath and braved the ugliest battle scene I have ever encountered!
I yelled as she proceeded to grab each wipe I have already used and is lined with faeces. 'This is NOT the time to organise the wipes unless you can pick them up along with your own sorry arse and return to sender!!!' My little girl's hands are now covered in her own passed- through food, and while my hands were sacrificed at the very beginning of this joyous event complete with squeals each time I squelched it, her poo-covered hands are now headig toward my face, as I'm bent over her trying to get the crap out the carpet before she picks up yet another wipe, and not only does she hit my cheek, she chooses to extend her attack further and grab my hair!
She's now naked and screaming, rolling poo around everywhere since she doesn't like the cold wet wipes all over her back, and in accompaniment, I am now screaming, removing poo from around everywhere because I don't like the warm wet shites all over my face!
It. Was. Everywhere.
Screw Titanic, this was a Tsunami, this was The Impossible, yet apparently extremely possible and drowning me as I gasped for breath, asphyxiating in my own front room.
About an hour after the shit-storm had passed, the scene of the crime had returned to normal with a clean, happy, baby no longer covered in her own outpourings and a recovered, back-to-normal, poo-free, living room. And yet there I was exhausted, shell-shocked, sat speechless (although this piece of writing would suggest otherwise) staring at the TV. And then I realised, there it was, I'd missed a spot, Mary Berry's rather unattractive spot to be precise.
So while I considered my participation in the Great British Scrape Off and how I was going to remove this final piece of evidence and attempt to erase the trauma from my mind, in walks his lordship, none the wiser of my gut-heaving afternoon and with a disgusted look on his face as he sniffs in the aroma of the room, he says...
"It stinks in here, have you farted??"