We’ve found a shit in the middle of our sitting room floor.
A human shit.
Produced by my 17-month-old feral son.
He has recently learnt how to take off both his trousers and nappy, and within moments of getting through the front door will have whipped both off and is running around au naturel from the waist downwards.
Now, I don’t want to start being all Monsieur Prudish at home.
I like being naked as much as the next person, (unless I’m sitting next to Yoko Ono or Katie Price for example, they probably like it more,) and I want my kids to be comfortable with their bodies, of course I do.
I want them to see us with no clothes on so they grow up not feeling self-conscious.
I want them to feel happy and free, whatever shape and size they grow into.
I do not, however, want them to shit on the floor.
I know all the baby books say it takes about three weeks to grow out of a phase, but I’m putting a 24-hour deadline on this one.
And as the only word my son says at the moment is ‘cheers’; I don’t think this is going to be a sit down and explain scenario. (Unless it was over a beer, then his response would be perfect.)
No, I will just have to dress him in seriously complicated outfits. All zips, buttons and braces so he will never be able to take an item of clothing off again without assistance.
This is going to be the trouser equivalent to Fort Knox.
Because I’m not a house-proud woman.
But I have a line.
And a poo on the floor has just crossed it.