The Poo Slug

We make all sorts of allowances and break all sorts of rules for our Third Child. Despite being three years old, she is – and always will be – our baby.

And she knows it.

And exploits it.

Despite regularly using the toilet and potty at daycare for most of last year – completely without my knowledge, mind you – now that I have lost patience and taken away Baldy’s daytime nappies, she has decided that toilets are for fools and there are much better places to find relief. Like the floor outside her bedroom. And the backyard.

Yesterday after three hours in the park, and my watching her like a hawk, there had been no accidents. When we came home and I asked if she wanted to do a wee on the toilet, she gave me a sideways glance and simply said ‘No thanks mummy.’

Pretending not to watch her, I pottered around doing mum stuff, like dishes and Facebook. When I heard her run to her bedroom and start digging through the drawers for a nappy I knew she needed to go.

So armed with a bag of lollies I walked into her room and bribed her: four lollies for a wee on the toilet. Perhaps not the best parenting technique, but certainly one of the most reliable.

She did her wee and got her lollies.

I was going to need more lollies, but perhaps this was going to be easier than I thought.

Not long after, she approached me with a strange look on her face.

‘There’s a bee!’ she said, frightened.

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘On my finger.’

I looked closely at her outstretched finger and my stomach lurched. ‘That’s not a bee sweetie. That’s poo!’

She looked at her hand and back at me, her eyes big and I could see I had about three seconds before she completely lost the plot.

‘Why do you have poo on your finger?’ I asked.

‘It’s in my bottom,’ she said.

Ah.

She bent over and yes, there was part of a poo squished between her butt cheeks. But where was the rest of it I wanted to know.

‘Bend over,’ I said arming myself with a whole packet of wet wipes. She bent forward and promptly cracked her head on the corner of the wall, a huge welt immediately appearing. Trying to comfort one end and wipe the other, we finally managed to clean her up, reapply knickers, and send her out to watch TV.

Meanwhile, I needed to find the rest of the poo.

‘Where were you when you did the poo?’ I asked.

She pointed. ‘On the couch,’ she said.

Awesome.

I checked the couch. No poo.

I checked the rug in front of the TV. No poo.

Soon I was running all over the house – the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen – looking for the 

poo. Nothing.

I soon figured out where it was.

‘Arghhhhhhh poooooooo,’ she moaned like was facing the worst ever demon zombie monster ever.

The first bit was just the prelude. Now it was time for the main act.

As she walked towards me, little poo slugs fell onto the floor. Splodge. Splodge. Thank god it was on the tiles.

I grabbed her under the arms and ran to the nearest toilet, holding her as far in front of me as my pathetic upper body strength would allow. I put her on the ground and started to take her – incredibly full – underpants off, only to realise that she had put them on sideways so she was squeezed into them like a crotch hugging corset.

The only way to get them off was to make her shut her legs which she had as wide open as John Wayne after riding a horse for a week. ‘Shut your legs,’ I kept saying.

‘Nooooo,’ she kept howling.

As I forcefully moved her feet together so I could pull her undies down, the giant poo started breaking apart. We both watched as a giant poo slug slowly slimed its way down her thigh, leaving a brown trail the length of her leg. She howled and tried wiping it away, which merely transferred said poo slime to her arm. More bits were falling out onto the floor, and we were both crying, one from humiliation and the other from insanity and laughter.

I finally got the knickers off, and quickly decided that they were beyond redemption. The big chunk of poo went in the toilet and the knickers went in the bin. The child went in the shower.

Later that night when her Daddy asked her about her day, she merely smiled at him and said ‘My poo went in the toilet.’

Technically true but so far from the actual truth, I could have cried.

Toilets are for wimps

Becoming Public Enemy #1

Have you ever bagged out your boss? Criticised your husband?... or your mother-in-law? 

What about that bitchy mum who parks across two bays at school so no one scratches her precious car? I bet everyone has broadcast a dig at the PM or some other public figure.

Have you ever complained about your kids? Publicly? And how did that work out for you?

How come it is perfectly acceptable – even encouraged -  for us to trash talk other adults but the minute you say anything other than love and bunnies about children you are publicly maligned? 

And god forbid you are a mother who complains about an aspect of parenting: suddenly you are the epitome of evil.

Bad mothers are as evil as Joffrey,
image from http://gameofthrones.wikia.com/wiki/Joffrey_Baratheon

Last year I blogged about not liking playing with my kids. Rather benign really. I don’t really like playing tennis either but no one really cares about that. I didn’t write about locking them in a cupboard or starving them of food, or beating them when I was angry. I admitted that playing imaginary games with my daughter drove me nuts. I wasn’t the first mother to ever admit this, and I am pretty sure I won’t be the last. 

It was re-posted on mega site Scary Mommy and while there was a collective sigh of relief from hundreds and hundreds of mums admitting they felt the same way, there was a seam of comments from people accusing me of being a bad mother and questioning why I even bothered having kids if I wasn't going to play with them.

Society doesn’t like it when mothers admit truths like this. 

Mothers are meant to remain perfectly happy and grateful for their fortunate position. 

Society trashed British mother Isabella Dutton when she admitted that she didn’t love her children and regretted having them. Admittedly, calling them parasites in the national tabloid where they – and the entire world – could read it, might have been a judgement in error, but she cannot have been the first women to have children to please her husband and then spend the rest of her life wishing she hadn’t.

When US mother Lenore Skenazy let her then nine year old son catch the subway home by himself, she was quickly vilified as America’s worst mom. Why? For publicly admitting that she felt the way we currently parent our kids was stifling them.

Throughout history there have been bad mothers. There have been ambivalent mothers. But it is primarily in recent years with the rise in blogging and greater access for the average person to find a platform that suddenly we are able to talk about things that women have been thinking about for years. Topics that were once considered taboo are finally being talked about – albeit slowly: miscarriage, post-natal depression, gender disappointment. Genuine discussions about difficult topics that people find challenging to talk about and confronting to listen to.

And where we should be celebrating that opportunity to air some of our grievances, it would seem you cannot find a more judgmental crowd than a group of mothers. Every time a woman admits that she is not as fulfilled as she thought she might be, every time someone divulges she perhaps was a better employee than she is a mother - instead of letting her have the opportunity to fess up to what is probably a major source of angst, she is attacked.

Why aren’t parents, and in particular mothers, allowed to admit their flaws? 

What are we afraid of? 

Do you make these mistakes when shopping with kids (and husbands?)

‘We’ll be quick,’ my husband had said. ‘All I need is some soft drink from the store and some new shirts.’

‘You want to take three kids to a department store while you buy shirts?’ I asked incredulously.

He showed me his phone.

‘I have pictures of exactly what I want. Size, brand everything. It’ll be easy,’ he said.

First mistake – believing my husband.

The shop with the shirts didn’t open til 9am yet for some reason we were coasting into the carpark well before 8.30am. My husband slowed in front of the boom gate and took the proffered ticket.

What happened to it after that is anyone’s guess.

Saying Goodbye to Baby Number Three

Some might consider this post a year – or even two – overdue.

It’s the post where I finally admit that Baldy Baby, aka The Third Child, is no longer a baby. She is a little girl, three years old tomorrow.

It’s not just our children who experience rights of passage when they have birthdays. Let’s be honest, they’re really only interested in cake and presents at this age, and can’t really tell the difference between a birthday and Christmas, unless they are particularly observant about colours and the fact you eat cake instead of pudding.

But for parents, admitting that your youngest child is no longer a baby, can be a momentous occasion. It represents a shift in your status as a parent: one that can often lead to serious contemplation and navel gazing.

What am I doing with my life?

What have I achieved?

Will she ever get out of nappies?

There's Always One...

There’s always one kid at swimming lessons who spend their time howling, screaming, crying and otherwise being a complete terrorist in swim nappies. There’s always one…

Today was The Terrible Third’s first day of swimming lessons. Not yet three, her confidence around the water is only exceeded by her inability to swim, judge hazards or be remotely trustworthy.

But she was so excited to finally get to do what her big sisters have been doing for years. I left the house early, not quite knowing what was involved or how long it might take to get our access cards sorted.

I hadn’t calculated on her running the entire way from the car to the pool, as such we were slinking into our seats half way through the lesson prior to ours. The two mums turned to me and smiled.

‘You’re here early,’ one said looking at The Third as she hopped from foot to foot pointing at the water.

‘Swimming wessons,’ The Third shrieked throwing her sandals off and heading towards the pool. I grabbed her by the straps of her bathers and pulled her onto my lap. ‘You have to wait,’ I told her.

‘The other kids need to finish their lesson first.’

‘Awwwww,’ she pouted, thrusting her hands onto her hips. ‘I must swim!’ she declared.

The mums sniggered, and I glanced at the clock. Still ten minutes to go.

Ten minutes later, and The Third had somehow managed to stay out of the pool. She had hopped and jigged and sang and pointed and shouted ‘Now?’ hopefully a dozen times, but she had stayed dry.

The mum smiled at her ‘it’s so nice to see so much enthusiasm. You won’t have any trouble with her, she’s raring to go.’

I laughed, and stupidly said ‘My kid will probably be the one that wants to go swimming and the minute they get in the water they scream for the next half hour.’

We both twittered, ha ha ha. Because of the irony, you see.

She left with her small wet child and I took The Third to meet her new teacher. She sat on the edge and began kicking her legs obediently. When asked, she jumped into the pool and put her arms around the teacher’s neck with a huge smile.

Awesome, I thought. This is easy.

Stupid, stupid woman.

It took about two and half minutes for The Third to turn from cute kid in wet pigtails to pint sized terrorist. I still can’t figure out what made her switch.

It wasn’t long before a high pitched wail began ricocheting off the walls. ‘Nooooooooooo,’ the kid howled, followed immediately with a lower pitched profanity from the poor adult whose ear drum had been shattered. I looked up to see The Third trying to climb on the shoulders of her teacher, who was desperately trying not to sink beneath her.

‘I want my Mummmmmmmmmyyyyyyyy,’ the Third howled. The teacher patiently swam her to the edge of the pool, and asked her to sit on the step. She handed the Third a toy duck and turned her attention to the other small child in the class.

A duck sailed over their heads and landed with a plop in the pool. This was soon followed by a kick board and a plastic tea cup. I hissed at her, and she looked up at me as though surprised to see me. ‘Hi Mummy,’ she said. ‘I swimming wessons.’ She filled up a small watering can and tipped it over her head.

Her chin trembled. ‘Wet!’ she said indignantly. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

What a lie. I totally rolled my eyes.

The teacher came back to The Third and asked if she wanted to try again.

‘Noooooooooo,’ The Third shrieked, bringing reproachful looks from neighbouring classes. She ditched another kickboard into the pool.

The poor, patient teacher, probably still only a teenager, pushed her shoulders back and faced The Third. I had the utmost respect for this brave brave woman. She looked The Third in the eye.

‘High five?’ she asked hopefully.

The Third slapped a Nemo toy into her outstretched hand with a wet thwack.

‘Fish high five,’ The Third hollered.

At this point the other mum returned, looking for her mobile phone she had left behind. She looked at The Third, sitting on the wall with her arms tightly crossed, glaring at the teacher.

‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

‘I was right,’ I said sadly. ‘There’s always one, and today that one is mine’ as we watched the Third climb out of the pool, screaming, and hiding behind a pole.

‘Swimming wessons?’ she yelled at me expectantly.

‘You’re AT swimming lessons,’ I yelled back.

‘Oh.’

Let’s see how we go next week… if there IS a next week.

A Story in Two Parts: Part Two The Sweet

“I’m Clarissa the Rock fairy,” the Mop announced.

“The what fairy?” I asked.

“The Rock Fairy,” she said. “I like to rock!” I could see her eyes rolling at my ignorance as she strummed her air guitar.

“Ohhh, a Rock and Roll Fairy,” I nodded.

“That’s my talent,” she said proudly.

“What do you play?” I asked.

“The giddar,” she replied.

“And do you sing?” I wanted to know.

“Of course,” she sighed dramatically.

“That’s awesome. Now go to bed so you can get up tomorrow and rock some more.” I was so tired my eyes were sticking together and I couldn’t walk straight. School holidays were doing me in.