Wednesday, 23 August 2017
Over the past few weeks I have been stuck in a world of poo. I have a 2 year old that is ready to be potty trained if only she would sit on the damn thing. We have three potties: one that is like a throne adorned with Finding Dory stickers, a travel potty in pink which also doubles up as a child’s toilet seat and a bog standard *(‘scuse the pun) one from John Lewis. She won’t sit on any of the buggers. Correction. She will sit on them but not perform in or on them. We tried a bit of ‘no pants on’ action before bath time. She sat on the potty out in the garden. I was lulled into a false sense of “potty training- this shit is easy”. And then she got up and crapped all over the decking about a meter away from said potty. It was a watering can job to get it out of the grooves. She’d had sweetcorn that night.
Since we got back from holiday we have entered a whole new dimension. Constipation. She is aware of her bowel movements and is hanging on a bit too long. We have had a couple of really tough days when she’s been so “owled” as my mother calls it: a phrase that beautifully describes the complaint. When one needs to go, one has a certain look about one. You know, wide eyed and well, owled. And she can’t sleep and spends all day straining and in a right old ratty arsed mood. It’s been really horrible. She has taken to squatting and hitting the deck and flapping her arms, shouting out “no, no, poo, poo, happening.” She starts straining and goes red faced and watery eyed. It’s quite something to behold. Now, this can happen anywhere. In the middle of a path in a National Trust property. In the street, in a car park, in Peppa Pig World in the queue for Miss Rabbit’s helicopter… I mean, it can be awkward. Also, when we’ve had faecal success she is so happy that she wants to tell everyone. On the way home from Peppa Pig World, we had to stop at a Harvester. I had never been to a Harvester. I’ve patronised a Beefeater and a Berni Inn but never a Harvester with their infamous free Salad bar. My relieved little girl emerged from the ladies and told the whole restaurant that she’d done a “big poo”. And then kept repeating it. The chap on the table next to us who’d ordered the mixed grill wasn’t overly chuffed, I can tell you.
You see, decorum and discretion have gone out of the window. I’ve turned into one of those parents who will wipe a pooey bum in public. I’ve done it at the station, in car parks, in Royal parks and in a family members garden. When you gotta wipe ya gotta wipe. I find myself asking “Do you need a poo poo?” quite a lot. And it’s always in “that” tone. You know the one. It’s ever so patronising and has an upward inflection at the end. What the hell has happened to me? I got so emotional about my daughter’s constipation that I not only cried in public but it was in a Harvester. A ruddy Harvester for pity’s sake. My little one looked at me and said “It’s ok, Mummy.” And presently wiped my tears with a Harvester paper knapkin. I mean, we’ve reached a low. It’s not ok.
I am obsessed with it. Poor child is being followed by a desperate parent, constantly enquiring about her bowel movements. I need to get a grip. When she’s been, I think about it on the way to work and actually feel relieved on her behalf. I never realised that constipation could be so all consuming. Reading this back , I actually sound certifiable. Thank God I’ve got some major weight loss to occupy me instead. I have started running again and I also took the decision to come off the pill and try something else. Within a week and half I have put on over half a stone. I feel heavy, have boobs round my ankles and I’m ready to snap at a moments notice. I’m wearing all my fat girl clothes which consist of a lot of Jersey separates in a dark palate. So, today I started back on it. I can not be arsed with the weaning off process. Back on the mini pill I go. No periods, no tampax, no mess, no libido. Job done.
The running is going well so every cloud. Starting off with 20/25mins, two or three times a week. I’ve bought a book entitled, Run Fat Bitch Run. And this fat bitch is running. I run at dusk along with all the other fat bitches and wear all black. My ipod is packed with banging toons which I ratchet up the volume so as not to hear my laboured breathing. And I feel good. Really good. I am currently curled up in our garden room, having run in the park avoiding deer and I am typing with a glass of Portuguese red to hand, listening to Fleetwood Mac. I didn’t get the commercial I was pencilled for today but I did play a Shocked Cow and a squirrel in a computer game. Oh, and the small one is asleep and has done two big poos. Life. Is. Good.
Tuesday, 8 August 2017
The Curious incident of the Dog in Padstow.
I'm back. After a 3 weeks leave of absence I'm back in the blogosphere, coming at ya with average to middling tales of parenting wins and losses. Cornwall was ruddy awesome. By jingo, by crikey we needed that holiday. A week by the sea, fresh air, good food and the happiest toddler you ever did see. Pure bliss.
Then you have to come home. A car full of sand, shed loads of washing and life. We came back to my Grandad's funeral. My Mum did an amazing job and gave him the dignified send off he deserved.
We also had to put up a shed (still married after that), go to the tip and I had to go back to work. I love my job but I have an unwritten rule that, ‘Thou shalt never work he day after a holiday.’ But, being self employed and a little cash strapped after holiday I took the work. I worked most of that week with los of travel thrown in too. By the time the weekend came round I was comatosed.
Now, we three had actually slept on holibobs. A heady mixture of a buggered routine, the odd late night, she's loads of exercise and lung fulls of Cornish sea air meant our little girl slept. All frickin night, almost every night. It was SHamazing!! Then we came home, she got constipation and she had to go back into a routine. Mummy also went back to work. The sleep went out the window for a week. It was the shittest week of sleep we've had in a while. However, now she's had a poo and she's back in the swing of things he sleeping has started up again. It's really good isn’t it?
The holiday was rally fab but it threw up some new challenges. My gal is a year older. She's bigger, bolder, with new opinions. Strong ones. With this new found voice come tantrums. Big ones. Let me set the scene:
The sun is shining in a cloudless blue sky over Padstow. There is enough blue sky to make a sailor a pair of trousers. Seagulls are calling to each other across the harbour. We'd managed to get a parking space and Mummy had found a place to get a flat white. All was calm. We'd also got a table at Rick Stein’s cafe . This was the idyllic scene suddenly shattered because……
SHE DIDN’T WANT TO GO IN THE PRAM. All
Hell broke lose. It took two parents with some smooth WWF moves (wrestling not the organisation with the panda) to get our beloved strapped in whilst she was screaming and frothing at the mouth. This was the Paddy in Padstow.
I did the honourable thing and ran away shouting” You're not mine. You're not mine.”, whilst my husband (sporting a pink short. Strong look) pushed our daughter through the bustling streets of Padstow. One man said, “I’d be screaming if my Dad was wearing pink shorts”. Then we were stopped by two well- meaning ladies win two well-meaning small dogs. I cheated to the older one (the lady not the dog). She did lots of sympathetic nodding and said “it's difficult isn't it when they can't express themselves.”
I think she’d expressed herself quite clearly to the good people do Padstow, leaving them under no illusions that she had been placed in her stroller against her will. The other lady chatted to my pink beshorted husband. Next thing I know, my little one has a a small dog on her lap. The shock of it made her stop howling because the dogs claws were digging into her leg. The well-meaning lady looked at her and said, “My son has autism too and he finds the dog a very calming influence.”
I didn't know where to look. I didn't know whether to be grateful, horrified or offended. Instead we both got the giggles moved away apace. I mean she has a penchant for citrus fruit and likes to wrap them up in a flannel and pretend their a baby but…
Hey, I'll keep an eye. (Wink wink emoji).
So, now we're back I am on operation “Remove Mum bum and tum”. Seen the photographic evidence of me in shorts and the evidence is conclusive, filter or no. I need to start exercising again. The Weight Watchers subscription has been paid for, the Couch to 5k app installed and the scales dusted off. I'm ready to go. Well, I was suppose to start last night but small had constipation again so was up most of the night but tonight is the night. Lycra and a shall be donned. I will keep you abreast of my journey. I'm going to need a lot encouragement and rocket up my arse but I am determined. FIRM BUMS NOT CREAM BUNS!
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