Free to good home: ovaries, 1 pair, will throw in coffee table

My cousin has this two and a half year old that looks and acts unsettlingly like a high-pitched midget version of myself. Lil, like most toddlers is precious as hell with her big eyes, chubby cheeks and “I lisp just enough to be adorable without appearing to be Perez Hilton.” But by god, the independence and attitude of this girl gives the lie to the apparent cuteness. She’s recently decided she’s had enough of nappies and graduated herself into underpants of her own accord. A few weeks ago I wandered over to pilfer some wine and dinner, and Lil proudly displayed to me her ‘big girl knickers’ that she demanded her mother buy. I showed her my big girl knickers too and my cousin yelled at me for encouraging her daughter to be a big ol’ hussy like her Aunt Inga. Lil and I get on well.

Over the Easter weekend, my cousin asked if I’d mind taking Lil for a few hours while she and hubby went out to dinner. Sure, says I. We had a merry old time watching Winnie the Pooh movies and building cubby houses out of blankets, then:

“I need to go…the toilet.”

Now children and toilet habits have always confused me. At what point do you trust them to wipe themselves? At what age is it inappropriate to bring your son into the ladies’ room with you? How the hell do you teach a boy how to aim that thing? I just don’t get it, and hopefully I never will.

None of this helped in my present situation. Lil had already taken off her trousers, and was standing in front of the loo in a nappy. Nappy?

“Lil, where are your big girl knickers?”

“I’ll go get them!”

“Noooo you won’t. Stand still.”

I squinted at the nappy for a moment. I was hoping it was one of those ‘pull up’ thingies I’d seen on the TV with the creepy rapping kid, but alas, they appeared to be a regular pair fixed in place with voodoo and double sided tape.

“Lil, how the f*** do I get these off?”

Blank look. Ok. I fiddled around, yanked hard, down they came and…

SWEET MERCIFFUL SPAGHETTI MONSTER, THAT’S ACTUAL POO.

I plonked Lil down on the dunny and told her to finish doing whatever she had to do while I went hunting for gloves, disinfectant and a high-pressure gurney. I was rifling through her bedroom looking for equipment when I heard her singing happily from the other end of the house.

“Lil! Get back in the toilet! Stay out of the kitchen!! Oh my god, is that poo on your hands?!”

I scrubbed her hands (and mine) vigorously with antibacterial soap, then let her run off while I pondered what to do with her backside. Eventually I unearthed wet wipes and a new nappy. Random, awkward wiping ensued.

“Ok Lil, I have a nice clean nappy for you!”

She stood obediently in front of me while I unfolded the apparatus and stared at it in mute bewilderment. For a full five minutes I tried to wrap it around her while she was standing up, before realizing I’d never seen a single sane person try to re-diaper an upright child.

“Maybe you should lie down, kiddo.”

Down she flopped, and in no time at all I had her taped and swaddled. Granted, one fastener was up near her armpit and the other somewhere around her left knee, but she seemed content with my effort. We resumed our cubby-house architecture.

Forty minutes later I noticed a grim odour wafting from her general direction.

“Lil, have you pooed again?”

“No!”

“Are you sure? Maybe we should go to the toilet again just in case you-” ….

…HOLY MOTHER OF GOD HOW DID YOU MAKE ALL THAT POO?!

I tore off the demon faeces nappy with a sound that was half-sob, half-retch, threw it in a corner, dumped her back on the toilet and bolted to get the wipes.

“Are you all finished now?”

“Yes!”

“Ok, let’s clean your tushie and-“ …

..OH SEVEN HELLS POO ON THE TOILET SEAT POO ON MY HANDS OMIGOD OMIGOD OMIGOD I’M GONNA DIE I’M GONNA DIE

Five hundred and eighty wet wipes and ninety dry reaches later, Lil and I were watching cartoons and cuddling on the couch when her slightly tipsy parents came home.

“Lil-leee! Were you a good girl for Aunty Inga?”

Lil and I exchanged a look, and I know we were both silently vowing to visit a cocktail bar together in sixteen years and forget the whole sorry episode.

Seriously, I’m not having kids.

 

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32 thoughts on “Free to good home: ovaries, 1 pair, will throw in coffee table

  1. ROFL!!!
    Oh god, this is great!
    I know it’s no comfort to you, but that is how I reacted (and still react) every damn time I had to deal with major poo, through three children and now my three darling nieces/nephew.

    It’s just plain GROSS!!! If we could evolve to do away with any one thing, I would vote for evolving away from poo.
    The end.

    • Why can’t kids be like horses? 10 minutes out of the womb and they’re standing and running around and finding their own damn food.

      I’m not sure how you can do this kind of thing with 3 consecutive kids, plus extras. Shudder.

  2. Yeah, when I was 13 and held a 2 year old vomiting out one end (trying to cover his mouth, so it spurted out between his fingers in different directions–not exaggerating) and shitting out the other…on my legs as, I tried to hold him over the commode?

    I haven’t had to deal with worse, so far. I’m almost 40.

    I will say: I never knew a kid that liked to eat their shite. They exist. I’m thankful none of them are acquainted. Darling kid and her name is perfect.

  3. I think it’s inappropriate to take your son into the ladies room when he starts making wolf-whistles at the other ladies.

    I am 50 years old and have never changed a diaper. I always said I’d change my own kids diapers, never even offered for my nieces and nephews.

    I’m pretty sure, though, that if I did have a kid I’d just litter train them.

  4. Mrs GOF and I feel your panic and smell the stench…..now if you’ll just excuse us we’ll go to a more comfortable place and roll around the floor laughing.

    GOM is so full of child rearing wisdom that he should write a book…….as soon as he does I’m going to start manufacturing “Kiddie Litter” (and share the profits with him of course.)

  5. Oh. My. Gawd. I’m about to have dry heaves, too.
    (thankgodidonthavechildrenthankgodidonthavechildrenthankgodidonthavechildren…)
    Sorry, was that out loud?

  6. I could clean any mess my own children made, but ask me to change another child’s nappy and I would retch. You get used to your own kid’s mess.

    Lie them down and hand them a bottle (not wine!) to distract them while you change them.

    And remember famous last words…

    • I think *I* need the lie down with the bottle of wine for distraction. I’m not sure how daycare workers fare – I can understand how you’d get used to your own kids’ emissions, but a whole bunch of random children? For $14 an hour?! Ick.

  7. Ha ha! (in a nice way, obv.) My worst poo-related incident was when my son was about 18 months and decided to become lactose intolerant when we were away on holiday in a cottage with no washing machine. His bottom emitted what can only be described as mustard-coloured slime and he pretty much managed to cover himself and the cottage in it. Nice. There’s nothing like washing diarrhoea out of cushion covers by hand, I can tell you.

    On paper, having children makes no sense whatsoever.

    • Mustard slime? Lordy Jando, that image is going to put me off my sushi for weeks. Must’ve been one hell of a holiday…I hope the people that booked into the cottage after you were honeymooners.

  8. Shit, piss and snot never bothered me but do not ask me to deal with a vomit be it cat, dog or kid. We’ve always had an unspoken agreement that spew was Daz’s specialty. Good lord don’t even talk to me about the time Kimba spewed after a buffet dinner at Valentines and we all still talk about the night we spent in a room at Panthers after Lloyd ate all the chocolate mousse at The Black Stump. But thankfully I never had to deal with either. They were just noises in the night.

  9. Dear lord, after a similar episode last year with a cousin, that still appears to me in hideous technicolour flashbacks from time to time, I feel your pain. This is why I have a dog not a child. I will never be expected to wipe my dog’s jacksy and for that I am thankful.

    • Ugh. No one should be exposed to this kind of thing if they’re deliberately childfree.

      Regarding dogs, I’ve heard of something called “expressing anal glands” which I’m too scared to google.

      • My last dog had his anal glands expressed. Don’t Google it if you’re eating. Or sqeamish. Fortunately it’s not something you do yourself, the vet does it. This does mean you have to pay for it of course but I’d happily hand over 40 quid in order to not have to squeeze glands in my dog’s arse or deal with the utterly eye-watering stench this produces. I just sit in the waiting room and the vet returns my now wincing and nervous dog to me. If the same principle could be applied to children I might have considered having them.

  10. Of my numerous nieces and nephews, I’ve managed to avoid changing nappies but I still haven’t got over the time I was minding one of my nephews – only for a couple of hours – but he was suddenly compelled to take me by the hand and drag me towards the toilet ‘Poo, Auntie Katie. Poo. Poo.’, where he produced a man-sized dump (seriously, it was the size of a man, not even something a man could produce). And then, the horror ‘wipe it now’. I fashioned elbow length gauntlets out of loo roll, did what I could whilst looking away and retching and had to have a little lie down afterwards.

    • Ohh I wish I’d thought of loo paper gauntlets. On the positive side, at least it’s something you can bring up at his 21st birthday party, in front of all his friends.

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