There was no indication when I rose at 5:30 to see my husband off as he left to throw himself out of a plane, nor when I collected Miss R from her cot so she could snuggle in the big bed with me and Master A until a more civilised hour, not even as I lay unable to go back to sleep due to the 3.8 equivalent shaking of the house caused by the trucks rumbling past to the nearby housing development, that the day was going to hold so many, gag inducing, EW moments.
I should have had a clue upon rising again at 7:30 when my 2-and-a-half-year-old son exclaimed cheerily over the biscuit coated fur-ball in the middle of the hall carpet. I didn’t, instead I wrangled my 1-year-old daughter away from it, preempting her desire to pick it up and dutifully cleaned the mess (thank goodness for carpet shampooers).
I could not however avoid the slap in the face that was my next clue. Having finished his morning cocoa Master A had, as usual, filled his nappy. As it was a very cold morning I had prepared oats for all of us and carried them down to the living room for a cozy breakfast in front of the heater and morning cartoons. Unwisely (in perfect 20/20 hindsight) I put the porridge bowls on the couch in order to take care of the aforementioned full nappy. It is my opinion that the nappy companies have it all wrong, it seems that no matter what brand you buy they will inevitably be printed with some loveable furry creature or a quartet of colourfully clad men who sing about over-heated tubers.
They should, in fact, be printed with a bio hazard label and a warning – Caution! Contents may cause retching, enter at own risk! – To my intense displeasure I found that the chronically mislabeled nappy had leaked and there was fecal matter all over the inside of my wee man’s pyjama pants and on his legs, EW 2. As I am cleaning this and him up I am unfortunately unaware of darling Miss R’s steady progress toward the couch and the waiting breakfast. Catching sight of her last-minute I lunge for her in an attempt to avoid the inevitable mess that will result in her successfully making her goal. I miss. As my triumphant girl happily massages what was supposed to be our breakfast into the fabric of the sofa I look back to discover that, in my frantic reach, my long, untied hair has swiped across my boy’s shitty backside and THERE IS POO IN MY HAIR!!! Cue intense dry heaves… EW 3.
Three shampoos and a deep condition later, seated on a freshly cleaned couch (lucky that shampooer works on furnishings too!) I feel somewhat human again and have a pretty fair idea of how the rest of the day is going to go.
I was not wrong…
I have a bit of time after breakfast before the rubbish truck is due to arrive so I take the opportunity to empty any uneaten leftovers and squishy fruit into our yet unfilled bag. As predicted I reach into the fruit bin and immediately plunge my thumb into a partially rotten cucumber, EW 4. As I carry the now nearly full bag outside to check for rubbish blown into the yard (or brought in by my kleptomaniac cat – he doesn’t care what he is stealing so his most common night-time acquisitions are trash) I stumble while swerving to avoid the sludgy remainders of what appears to be an apple dropped from our tree, drop the rubbish bag and scatter rice and vegetable peelings all over the path (I did mention in my bio on the “about” page that I am clumsy) EW 5!
EW’s 6 and 7 came in the form of further shitty nappies and although they were expected it didn’t make them any more fun. Thankfully I am given a reprieve and there are no more cringe worthy events for the rest of the afternoon or during dinner, bath time or even baby bed times. As would be expected I let this seeming calm lull me into believing that my icky moments were over (for that day at least).
As our bed time came Hubby and I readied ourselves for bed and proceeded to the bedroom. Shimmying Master A into the middle of the bed from his usual sideways position we climb in too, one on either side of him (yes we co-sleep – more on that in another post) and start to settle in for the night. Enter EW 8… emitting a loud groan our boy opens his mouth and out gushes a fountain of vomit! My husband (bless his strong stomach) grabs him up and holds him while wave after wave of half digested dinner comes pouring from our son. I would like to submit here that this be considered EW’s 9, 10, 11 and 12 also, as not only did he vomit on himself (EW 8) which is revolting enough but it was also all over me (9), hubby (10), the bed (11) and our pillows (12). What followed was a blur of showers, bed changes, pillow hunts, soothing cuddles and a very tired mummy grateful that finally, at 1:30am the day was finally over!