Let me tell you a tale of Sunday morning. It is 8.30, Tim is at his meeting and we have 45 minutes left before church. Henry is in the baby bath, and I turn away to switch the iron on. When I look round, Henry is sat with an expression his face has never worn before. Somewhere between confusion and embarrassment. And pride. There is modest pride there, too.
And then I see what he’s sitting in. Poo.
Oh, I am not just talking about a single jolly turd bobbing around with his bath toys. I am not such a lightweight. This is an explosion. There are ribbons expanding from him in every direction. He’s sat on a brown angry jellyfish of waste. The water – argh, the water. I can’t see his legs.
We just look at each other for a single, baffled minute. Right. Him first. Save him. (That’s the maternal instinct kicking in.)
I lift him unceremoniously out of the baby tub and into the square foot of bath surrounding it. I stretch up and just manage to flip the shower on while keeping hold of his arm. I shove the bath screen out of the way. The bath screen starts leaking all over the floor. I try to move a towel underneath it and suddenly the shower head is whizzing all over the room. I am soaked. Henry is soaked. Every conceivable surface is soaked. The water is cold, by the way. We are both shrieking. This is getting ridiculous.
I grab the shower head, hose him off, turn off the water, get him out. I am wet to the skin. I take off everything. I get him dry, dressed and down for a nap. Oh gosh, and the baby bath is still upstairs, swilling its craptacular cargo.
How will I get a bath’s worth of water down the toilet without getting it all over the floor?
I opt for a bowl. I am butt-naked, standing over an excremental catastrophe in my bathtub, panning for gold. IF BY GOLD YOU MEAN BROWN. IF BY BROWN YOU MEAN POO.
I do not think I have time to wash my hair.
We are ten minutes late for church, crazy-haired and dishevelled. I would like to come in wearing a sign saying ‘PLEASE DON’T JUDGE ME. THERE WAS POO’.
At times like this one must look for silver linings.
Lining one: he hadn’t started drinking the bath water.
Lining two: or splashing.
Lining three: this time yesterday, we were here.
I’ll take linings wherever I can find them, thank you.