Aimee Horton

When it’s not a Malteser.

Sep
29

There are days when I look back on my pre-child days and pity myself and my own naivety about what it’s like to have a child.  I’m not talking about the vision of baby powder, smiling laughing babies and snot free noses, to be fair that’s just Mother Nature’s way of making sure we all procreate.  If we are oblivious to the reality of the situation, we’re more likely to go for it assuming we’re adding something special to our lives.

No, that’s understandable.  I’m talking about the other foolish decisions and plans you make, for example putting cream carpets down in the house you have just bought knowing that you plan to have children in the next year or so.  Or the purchase of the expensive white bedding which you feel will give your room a lovely airy feeling when you’re sleeping along side the equally white moses basket on those warm summer nights.  Oh, of course the dry clean only clothes.  I often sit, in my dressing gown, which if you look at the bottom you can see has been used as a tissue (by a child not by me), on my sofa clutching my luke-warm cup of tea eyeing up the encrusted rusk which has made it’s way up the lounge curtains and laugh at my former immaculate self.

Then I chastise myself, because nobody NOBODY can prepare you for how gross it is to have children.

I’m not talking about the projectile vomiting you experience with your newborn (although that is pretty gross the first time you see it squirt out of a moses basket and up 3 metres into the air), or when your struggling to make said child feed and your breast milk lets loose and squirts your partner in the eye.  Not dirty nappies, “sprinkles” next to the toilet, and bogies on their sleeves I’m talking about the proper stuff.

“WHAT?! WHAT CAN BE MORE GROSS THAN THAT?!” I can hear shouted…obviously from people who don’t have children.

Shall I tell you?

There are three main types of gross. Snot, Sick and Poo.  Everyone his their danger area. But my biggest gross-out is poo related, this has never been an easy situation for me to deal with. The first two I’m ok about dealing with, although I’m not pretending that witnessing the double candle stick bogie that’s touching the top lip being licked hasn’t made me throw up a bit in my mouth…or in fact having another human being throw up in MY mouth hasn’t made me want to kill myself.

From the early days of it shooting out of nappies and seeping through a sleep suit onto my jeans, or it hiding away quietly in a pair of jeans, at the early stages where it’s not lumpy, just the consistency of Angel Delight, and you only discover it when you put your hands in the trousers to pull them down.  I’ve had to hold my breath and get over it.

But here’s the thing it’s got worse.  As soon as they are on the move, they can literally spread the shit further away, and recently it’s just not been an enjoyable experience.

I’ve wiped it off the wall, I’ve washed it out from between my toes, I’ve witnessed it falling out of pants during potty training stages and bounce across the floor and under the fridge, but I have to say my lowest ever point , even more than waking up to it on my cheek one morning, was discovering what I thought was a Malteaser on the stairs one morning before school.

It was just after Mr Aimee’s birthday, a particularly bad time for sleeping for The Chunky Monkey.  He was waking up constantly through the night, then ridiculously early in the mornings.  At 5.30am that morning I’d instructed Mr Aimee he was going to have to take over just for the hour so I could function and get some sleep.

At 5.33am I kicked him 3 times as the wailing on the landing above us kicked in, I heard him go upstairs, have a chat, go downstairs and return with what I presumed some milk.  I heard the tv remote being fumbled about with and the annoyingly perky sounds of Nick Jnr kick in (seriously CBEEBIES, whoever is in charge of you obviously doesn’t have kids if you believe that we don’t need you until 6am – and with DUCKING Tikkabilla too).

Anyway, at 6.45am, after pressing snooze 3 times I finally caved when I heard a scrap happening on the landing and dragged myself upstairs to let the monsters loose.

There on the stairs, was a lone Malteaser…similar to the topping on Mr Aimee’s birthday cake.  I saw it from across the landing, and as I marched towards it I began to construct my finger wagging that he had been foolishly lazy enough to give the child CAKE rather than discipline him.  I stood and glared at the offending ball of chocolate, thinking at this point that I would quite like some cake for breakfast. I bent down, I plucked it off the carpet ready to go and wave it at Mr Aimee who was already in the shower, thinking I could have a sneaky taste since I hadn’t even had a cup of tea yet, that’s when the smell hit me.

Not putting two and two together I kept hold of the chocolate, and marched up the stairs to see if The Chunky Monkey had done a dirty nappy.  The smell got stronger, and I spot another Malteaser on the landing…then another leading into his bedroom and right near where he’s squatting a pile of them.

“I done a poo”.

Needless to say, I did take a mouthful of gin to get rid of the taste of vomit in my mouth before making myself a cup of tea.

14 Responses to When it’s not a Malteser.

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