I was late home from my gig so was already flapping like a chicken on their way to Nando’s. I got the key in the door at the third attempt.
(It gets less tongue-in-cheek and more camp with every passing day.)
My wife’s usual happy reply didn’t arrive. Instead I heard only the sound that every parent craves and dreads in equal measure – silence.
Total, pin-drop, don’t-even-whisper-and-definitely-don’t-trump silence.
I rushed into the living room to see my wife standing in the centre of the room holding Twin 2 at arm’s length, as if she was part of a bomb disposal unit investigating a suspicious airport package.
This package wasn’t as much suspicious as it was smelly – he stank worse than a tramps duffel coat pocket and was leaking all over the floor like an old radiator.
I’d been out working all day and night so had promised that this was my shift. My wife elatedly reminded me of this as she passed me the dripping baby and skipped off to bed. The skipping was probably more necessity than glee – the specks of fresh bum juice on the carpet had caused her to play a quick game of cack-based hopscotch on her way out of the room.
As I held him like a medicine ball in front of me he gave me a look that said ‘Over to you, dickhead.’
Nappy Panic ™ kicked in and my decision making process dissolved quicker than a tuppence in a glass of Coke.
I put him on the changing mat and tried to take my coat off, forgetting I hadn’t removed the bag from my shoulder. Because I’m not Dynamo this caused my coat to get stuck on my head and for a split second I was back on the playground with someone trying to steal my lunch. I quickly remembered I’m 37 years old and technically the adult in this situation, so I sorted myself out and knelt down to deal with him.
His back door present had stuck to his clothes like toffee on a car seat during a hot day. As I tried to peel his pants off he made a noise that suggested he wasn’t enjoying this experience as much he might. But once I got everything off he seemed to relax.
I then supervised him as he lay on the changing mat so that he could finish the job he’d begun. Giggles, gurgles and smiles were interspersed with strains, grunts and bottom sneezes giving the whole soundscape the feel of an Emo-rock song.
When Twin 2 was changed I looked at Twin 1 and he was sat patiently on the sofa. I thanked him for being a good little boy and he smiled at me which never fails to turn me to mush. These are the moments you live for, there’s nothing like it in the world.
I walked over to pick him up for a quick cuddle and noticed he’d shat everywhere. Rapture was instantly replaced by revulsion - my emotions haven’t changed that quickly since puberty.
At least I thought he’d pooed everywhere. Turns out the entire output from his bottom had gone on a little daytrip around to his belly and left his arse cleaner than a FIFA laptop. His stomach on the other hand was a grizzly mess – it looked like it’d been the recipient of a cheap mud wrap on Groupon.
Their poo has an uncanny knack of finding the gap in whatever nappy brand or size we try. Other parents have warned me about how it gets WORSE when they’re teething. If it gets any worse we’ll have to bite the bullet and wrap our entire house in polythene sheets, like a crime scene from Dexter.
That'll be the only way we can stem the tide.
Click here to follow this blog on Facebook where I also post my memes and other blatherings about parenthood. Or share using the buttons below.