“You’re in for a big surprise this morning, mummy”, said her father with a twinkle in his eye as I entered the bedroom bearing coffee.
“I was going to change her myself but then I realised it was everywhere and I am going to be late for work,” he added.
My daughter lay on her changing mat gurgling happily and kicking her legs, one of which had a sticky yellow substance oozing down it.
The explosion was slowly spreading across the back of her white nightie and there were spatters on the delicate wool blanket she had been wrapped up in, a family heirloom.
She looked extremely pleased with herself.
Now, I know unpleasant bodily fluids are a fact of bringing up baby, and I am not averse to getting my hands dirty.
Yesterday morning’s nuclear nappy was not really such a disaster. It was quite convenient actually, as I just shoved it all in the washing machine and got her clean and dressed.
It’s the timing of her other ‘random’ splat attacks I object to. I say ‘random’, but they never happen when we have plenty of time and clean clothes to hand.
And my suspicions that my daughter is waging warfare against me when it comes to her bowel movements are further aroused by the outfits she chooses to decimate.
Her nappies never leak toxic stains on a plain old hand-me-down babygrow while we’re hanging out at home with nothing to do. Well, very rarely.
But should I go to the effort of dressing her up in a matching ensemble, perhaps that she is wearing for the first time, that’s when the s***splosion is sure to hit.
More likely the outfit is a gift from someone we are going to meet. She is looking smart, especially for the occasion, and about two minutes before we are about to leave the house the sirens sound. She is soiled and sodden and must be stripped down and quickly changed into the nearest dowdy old all-in-one I can find.
I have finally learned there is no point saving clothes ‘for best’, as not only will she grow out of them but they are always the ones she saves her ‘best’ efforts for as well.
And she always looks so pleased with herself.
Was it really too much to plan for her to wear a little woollen dress with bunnies on and matching tights at Easter? An hour after getting her dressed the answer was yes. Even the baby bouncer took a hit.
And it’s no good being on the alert. It might sound like I’m kidding myself, but this stuff don’t stink.
I know it will all change once she’s on solids, but at the moment it’s not easy to distinguish between the smell of her wet nappies and something much worse.
Her wind on the other hand is a noxious gas.
So when I do get her all dolled up with somewhere to go and am suddenly hit by a waft of what smells like old cheese and cabbages, I quickly whip open her nappy, only to find it empty.
Then I drop my guard and boom!
I must have tempted fate. I have just broken off from writing to check her nappy and found a tsunami of oomska gushing up and out of the front and all over her tummy!
She just giggled and sucked her toes smugly while I tried to ease her vest over her head without smearing the muck across her face.
And another good outfit hits the soak overnight bucket.