I need to get something off my chest – I know it’s controversial – but I hate changing nappies. Now, I’m very much a champion of the “mumsterhood” and I would do anything to support my fellow mums, but really, does anyone actually like changing nappies? Are you sure? There’s pooh there! Pooh is disgusting to me whether it comes from my darling daughter’s little pink bottom, the fluffy behind of a baby rabbit or the hairy a*se of a giant man. It’s pooh, it’s disgusting because it smells horrendous, it looks horrendous, it’s…pooh!
My daughter, aka the sh*t machine poohs every day, sometimes twice a day. The only bits I like about this is that a) I assume it means she’s healthy and b) the funny red googly-eyed straining face she does when she’s curling one out. It’s pretty amusing, especially when she does it in public and everyone’s watching her. Poor girl is going to get some serious ribbing in adult life if people don’t forget about it before she’s old enough to feel embarrassment.
I don’t make a big deal about hating pooh (except dog pooh which will never have a place in my life) I don’t complain about changing nappies I just don’t like it. OK sometimes I will pass her to my husband right after she’s done one and when he goes “I think she’s poohed”, I act surprised. Very occasionally I just look at him with a sad face and say “she’s poohed”. But mostly I just adopt my coping mechanism which I’ve had for every stage of her pooh and get on with it. My coping mechanism in case you were wondering is this 1) Hold breath 2) Try not to look at it 3) If it’s really bad say “Oh my God, this is disgusting” repeatedly in my head.
Here’s why I did this at every stage; because there has been no stage that wasn’t disgusting. The black tar ones when she was first born were revolting and scary and almost as big as her. They took about 700 balls of cotton to remove – then once I’d manoeuvred her little bird legs back into her blasted baby grow, she’d do another – straight away. Then there was the “liquified alien” stage – the clue is in the name. Then there was the yellow curry-sauce projectile stage which was the worst, and dangerous to boot; I got poohed on (and screamed), my best mate got poohed on (it took 2 washes to get it off her white top), my husband had to deal with what can only be described as a butt explosion which went so far up her back she had to go in the bath. Which brings us to now, where we are in the semi-solid-sludge stage. Guess what? It’s still gross and it will continue to be gross – forever. My love for her is unconditional and endless; and so is my hatred for pooh.
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