There was a point, yesterday, as I crouched stark naked with unwashed hair and half a shaved leg to pick up poop from the bathroom floor, that I really wished myself elsewhere.
It was the sort of day where you don’t see the sky once, find yourself tweeting about faeces and think that that’s ok. Henry woke up with a cough at full pitch, a temperature and a thick-headed, dribbly cold. He wanted to sleep but not for longer than half an hour. He wanted to play with things but not on his own and definitely not on the floor. He wanted, apparently, to poop without catching it in a nappy and then tread it around the bathroom while I tried to shower. I hated seeing him so miserable and not being able to fix it.
In the morning, we mostly looked like this.
In the afternoon, I gave up entirely and sat with him sneezing and groaning on my t-shirt and having fifteen-minute catnaps on my chest. When Tim came through the door in the evening, Henry laughed. I cried. I was so glad to see him perk up a bit, and I’d just remembered I hadn’t brushed my teeth. (What can I say, relief and sadness are emotional bedfellows.)
Well, lucky it was date night, and lucky that the magical appearance of Daddy works a lot better than Calpol. Tim cleaned Henry up and settled him in bed, while I changed and tried to do something with my face. The eye bags weren’t shifting, but I wasn’t covered in snot anymore and I was wearing lipstick. We went out for dinner and romancing, and I got out from under the weight of the day and breathed properly for the first time. Sometimes I need to see myself the way Timothy sees me.
My name is Rachel Jeffcoat, and I am more than a pooper-scooper.