Aimee Horton

When it’s all a bit pooh.


I’ve always had a rather sensitive nose.  This is not something I’m pleased about.  Whilst it’s useful (I can sniff out a dirty nappy three floors down), it also has massive draw backs – especially as I don’t cope well with gross things, to put into perspective how sensitive my gag reflex is, I can bork at the thought of a lone pooh lying sadly at the bottom of a public toilet which has failed to be flushed away by the previous occupant.

In fact, I’ve just gagged a little bit and had to go and get a can of diet coke out of the fridge and stop sweating.

When I fell pregnant with the Beast I flashed back about 8 years, to when I used to regularly babysit my nephews and once my nephew did a nappy SO SO bad that I threw up walking past him, and I had to call my sister to see if she was on her way home.  She was, so I just sucked on an entire packet of polos for 20 minutes until she got home and changed it.

Then I flashed back a further 10 years to when our hair dresser used to come to our house and to do our hair.  She used to bring her baby with her who I adored.  However I remember physically heaving and getting a little sick in my mouth at the smell of food she was feeding the baby from a jar.

Through the years, I used to hate going to the toilets at work (especially those that were unisex), hated walking into the butchers to get my meat, the fish counter at the supermarket, opening the wheely bin.  All things that made me feel more then a little nauseas, had me breathing through my mouth and finishing whatever business I had as quickly as possible.

I began to panic about who was going to do the babies nappies for me, especially as during both pregnancies, my sense of smell and my vomit reflex was even more heightened, and I became adept with throwing up in various unusual places (daily pulling my car into a lay-by on the A1 as I drove past McDonalds on the way to work, the bin outside the butchers, outside a public toilet when I DESPERATELY had to nip in for a wee, had to hold my breath then throw up).  I was even more nauseas (for the first 24 weeks) during my second pregnancy, and I remember my friends watching me turn green and physically beginning to heave as The Beast  pulled his pooh face, before often taking pity on me and changing his nappy.  Well, I say they took pity on me, they probably didn’t want skittle coloured sick on their carpets.

For two and a half years I was filled with fear for the inevitable potty training fiasco.  I’d toilet trained my nephews by downright REFUSING to deal with the potty.  I couldn’t do it, even emptying a wee down the toilet made me retch a little bit.  I KNOW I KNOW it’s dramatic, it’s ridiculous, but I couldn’t do it! I really don’t know what’s wrong with me.  When the cats have poohed in the house I’ve managed to clean it up when Matt hasn’t been around to do it for me, but it’s been done in a rather dramatic fashion of panting into my heavily perfumed jumper, lots of running outside to breath in fresh air, and possibly more kitchen roll then necessary.

Since having the boys I’ve become quite adept with shooting pooh spattered clothes from nursery nappy sack storage into the washing machine without smelling or touching it.  However, I’m quite impressed with my developed sense of humour with the whole situation.

Sense of humour with pooh?  You? Yes. I know.  Me.  It’s part of my “laugh or you’ll cry” mantra.  You see.  I think I’ve experienced quite a few pooh situations (although @aliceharold made me bork with her rendition of her DD carrying pooh from the potty in her hands).  For example, when one of the boys was days old, I go to change their nappy and they pooh with the nappy off, you know, that wet sort of pooh that squirts in the air.  It landed on my jeans.  It must have been the Beast as I remember grabbing frantically at my mint imperials so not to vomit.  I’ve also known a pooh to roll from nappy onto my bare foot and whilst I’ve changed the nappy calmly, then hopped around the room going “EWW EWWW EWWW” I’ve coped, lived to text Matthew telling him my tale of woe, and I’ve cleared it away.

I would cope better if there wasn’t the texture and the sound to deal with as well.  You know that sound, the slop as it lands in the toilet, splashing into water and gracing us with it’s shitty fragrance.   The sound of the grunts you hear through the baby monitor which warns you that when you open that nursery door you will be hit with a wall of grossness, that wall that requires at least 3 cups of tea to face, that slightly wet trumping sound which you know in the pit of your stomach means there is going to be pooh up to your sons neck.

The texture is another thing all together, hard I can cope with, it’s nothing a sainsburys bag quickly grabbed from the under sink cupboard can pick up (I’ve also being the doting mother that I am, been known to help ease a hard one out with a rubber glove and some water).   It’s the other ones I have issues with.  The sloppy ones that go up to their necks, the sticky ones that don’t just wipe off, you know you really have to rub it, the ones that are so sludgey that they seep through the nappy and you don’t realise until you open the vest and get it under your nails.

Why am I telling you about this now?  I would take it as a warning.  Fatso is ready to be potty trained.  I am quite nervous about this, he’s not even 2 and doesn’t speak very well – just shouts random abuse at you.  However, there’s an inkling that he’s ready.  The fact that you put him on the toilet and do the push motion and he pushes a pooh out.  If he doesn’t need to use the toilet he makes a fuss and demands to be taken off.

I’m holding off.  I know he’s ready, and let’s face it, the sooner he’s out of nappies the better, but there’s that gut feeling that he’s too young.  We were always quite lucky with The Beast once he GOT it, he got it.  We’ve had very very few accidents, never a car incident, however I know Fatty is going to cause more trouble.

Oh yes and that minor thing where I want a dog.  God knows how I’m going to cope with that – they do scented poop-a-scoops don’t they?


When you pretend you can’t smell anything.


One thing they never tell you when you are pregnant, one thing that is witheld (whilst animated in depth tales of piles, late nights, stretch marks are forced upon you), is the part where you play the avoidance game with your partner.

You probably all know what I’m talking about, but don’t want to comment yet, in case you have the wrong end of the stick.  I’ll go into more detail, white lies, usually focused around pooh or sleep.  You’re all with me now aren’t you?  Please tell me it’s not just me.

You become aware of the lies quite soon into the new born stage.  I would say it happened about day five of The Beast’s life.  I’d spent a hard night jiggling, feeding, bouncing, rocking, cleaning sick out of bra, changing nappies, changing vests, changing sleepsuits, bouncing and feeding.  I’d had very little sleep.  At times, when it got to sticky to be just tipping the sick from my bra into the sink, I had been known to lie a screaming baby right next to Matthew whilst I changed. I may have  laid it right next to his face, and when he didn’t even appear to stir, I have climbed into bed accidentally kicking him.  Still he doesn’t APPEAR to wake up.

In the morning, he would leap out of bed “well, that wasn’t a bad night was it?”.  I think the mood following that was what is known as “stabby”.

We all know men are “supposed” to have this natural ability to sleep through a baby cry, but sometimes I just think they pretend not to hear.  However, they don’t suddenly lose their sense of smell…do they?

Nappies.  Pooh filled nappies.  Not my favourite part of being a parent, especially first thing in the morning.  When Fatty gets into a nappy routine, it’s like that for about a week, and right now his nappies are first thing in the morning, and around bath time.

So, when I stumble into his room at 6.45am to re-insert his dummy (no milk until 7am!), if I get a whiff, I may pretend it’s just stale air.  Why?  Because Matthew’s shift begins at 7am.  So I have sometimes just snuck back into my room and snuggled into bed without acting on my motherly instinct to put that wobbly little bottom in a clean nappy.

When the 7am shift change kicks in, Matthew gets the milk and heads to the nursery.  Now.  Here’s the thing.  Sometimes he will change the nappy, muttering, making “eurgh” noises, but sometimes…just sometimes…he  can come back into our room and disappear off into the shower (WITHOUT MY CUP OF TEA), leaving me with a complaining child and I end up doing the nappy.

Another example, would be perhaps I smell a whiff, just as I’m going to fake a necessary visit to the loo (with a quick game of DrawSomething to boot), but as I turn around, I see Matthew hurrying down the stairs with his arms full of laundry and rushing into the virtually sound proof utility room HE NEVER DOES LAUNDRY!!! Darn it.  I end up changing the nappy.  One of us suddenly has some pressing paper work/tidying/phone calls/nipping to the shop as soon as the sweet scent of dying animals makes it’s way across the room where the fat one is sitting read faced and grunting.

At night, as DH is about to come to bed the baby makes a noise, he’s just about to go to the loo, but I pretend not to have woken up, so he has to deal with him.  As a direct response to this, he feigns not hearing the noises over night, even though we both know he has because at one point he shakes me awake and tells me that the baby is crying.  In the morning I point this out, he denies all knowledge.  I’d believe him if he hadn’t also remembered me calling him a rude name.

Nappies and sleep, it’s become a competitive avoidance game, “it’s your turn”, no “it’s def’ you, I did the pooh 3 days ago” “I DID FIVE YESTERDAY”.  The daily battle is then interrupted by bargaining “if you wipe his bottom I’ll do the nappy”, “I’ve been at work all day!…YES, I know staying at home with the boys is work but…no, you’re right nobody has wiped snot on my shoulder…no, my phone conversation wasn’t interrupted by EXCUSE ME MUMMAY I NEED FIVE MORE CREAM BISCUITS OR I’LL DIE…oh ok” or my personal favourite “I’ll let you pick, you can either tidy the pots up from dinner, or go up to the child shouting on the landing”.

I’m assuming this stops as soon as they can wipe their own bottoms?  Or do I need to reserve a few for when it’s time to bargain out the “sex” talk, as I’m RUBBISH at “Rock, Paper, Scissors”.