Sunday, 1 April 2012

Week 30- weaning, gurning and getting pooed on

Nancy and I are now officially a pair of weaners. And it's a high stress, toxic job.

High stress, cos Nancy has quickly realised that if she sucks her lips in like she's gurning, then nothing will go in. And no amount of singing, zooming of spoons, enthusiastic clapping, will unclamp them. Which is a bit depressing when she's quite happy to have a bash at licking the rusty metal chain that holds the swings up at the playground, but not the sweet potato mash I've spent all morning lovingly making.

Toxic cos some food must eventually go down, as the poos are now something else.

How can a person so small and beautiful create something so disgusting? I'm talking 24 hour benders poo, where you forget to eat anything other than pub nuts and the closest to a glass of water you get is watered down lager.

And the smell is unbelievable. It sits in the air long after everyone's been hosed down and the nappy bags been put in the neighbour's wheely bin.

It's like tar.

And it dyes everything- clothes, changing mats, bums.

I feel like, if we're going to have to deal with this level of gross then the pay off could at least be Nancy eating maybe one mouthful of baby rice a day. But no. Mind you, I tried it and it's not very nice. Apparently Jennifer Aniston lives on jars of baby food which is why she's so skinny. Well good luck with that.

Poogate started on Monday, when we were sat off in the garden with Ulrika and Ebba. There was an almighty smell, so we routinely sniffed the girls bums.

'Mine!' I called like a pro doubles tennis player, and without thinking, stuck my finger inside her nappy to confirm my suspicions that it was just a trump.

The slow motion voice came out. 'It's a poooooooo. It's all uuuuup her baaaack. And all ooooover my fiiiinger...'

We rushed her inside, stripped her down with Ulrika clamping both her hands to avoid a poo to mouth incident. We soon realised that it was beyond a wet wipes job, and dunked her in the bath. Feeling slightly traumatised, we all had a snooze, and wrote it off as a one off.

Until Tuesday came and we were hanging out in the park with some friends and their children. There was a similar stench, and sure enough, poo everywhere. As she lay naked on the changing mat, this time with Helen holding her hands while I desperately searched for something for her to change into, Wadey shouted, 'she's doing a wee!'

And the tar turned into a brown river.

'Shes doing another wee!' as I held her up over the mat.

And having done a mediocre job of cleaning her up, the final insult. She did wee nĂºmero three all over my new eBay jumper, as I gave her a hug.

So we decided to give baby jam a miss and just head straight to Boots on London Road to stock up on wet wipes as neither of us were looking our best.

The baby book says she should be eating meat in two weeks time. I'm not holding my breath.

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