Warning: If you feel unwell, have a weak stomach or generally don’t like poo talk, then do not read on. I repeat do not read on. OK, if you must, but don’t say I didn’t warn you…
So, the thing which I’ve feared the most finally happened on Tuesday. No, I didn’t drop the baby as I walked down the stairs or leave her on the roof of the car whilst I drove away. It was much worse than that.
Instead, Baby L decided to have a shit whilst in the bath. That’s right, the sprog decided that swimming in her own filth sounded like a good idea. Forgive me, but what a chubby, toothless skank!
What followed can only be compared to a full-blown hazardous waste clean-up operation which involved hosing down the baby and using industrial strength cleaner to remove all evidence of her crappy crime.
Up until this point, we’d had a nice day. We’d made the most of the sun by heading to a National Trust property to have a wander around. Little did we know what horrors lay in store later that evening.
The bedtime routine kicked in and it felt like any other night. I gave Baby L a mixture of different foods to
put in her mouth throw on the floor at around 5.30pm, before the missus took her upstairs for her bath a bit later.
That’s when it happened. I heard a yell from upstairs, something along the lines of “Dave, she’s pooing in the bath” (the actual words escape me as I’ve tried to forget about the incident where possible).
I reluctantly made my way upstairs, only to find a look that I’d never seen on the missus’ face before. Actually, scrub that, I’ve seen it once before – when the midwife told her that she was about to give birth and should begin to push. A kind of shocked, terrified and hesitant combination which cannot be replicated in emoticon form.
Then my eyes veered towards the bath. Oh how I wish they hadn’t!
In the water sat my cute daughter making noises whilst surrounded by her bath toys. Much like any other night. However, on closer inspection I found that they weren’t bath toys. They were lumps of crap. And these weren’t happy noises, these were manly grunts as she pushed the excrement out of her tiny bum hole.
“She’s still doing it”, yelled the missus in horror. “What do we do?”, she questioned in a panic.
But I had no answers. The NCT classes hadn’t warned me about this. Neither did any of the books or blogs that I’ve read. I was lost, confused and holding back the sick from entering my mouth.
Like any good parent, I went to remove the sprog from the danger zone. I lifted the baby to get her out of the shitty water, but that was a mistake. Now my hands were tainted and she continued to grunt. I returned her back to the infested swamp, only to realise that a turd was clinging to the side of the bath.
Much like an iceberg breaking into the sea, this lump of crap had started to disband and scatter around the now toxic water. I looked around for a solution and spotted a toy fishing net which I thought could be used to sieve out the poop. If that’s how midwives deal with any floaters in a birthing pool, then surely it’d be fine in this situation too?
But I thought better of it. The last thing I wanted was to turn this into a disgusting version of hook-a-duck. Instead, I put the baby back in the water, unsure of where else she should go, and lifted the plug hole.
As the filthy water started to circle around the plug hole and lumps of the shit began to disappear, the missus grabbed a handful of toilet paper and started to scoop up the remnants of the little one’s expelled food.
Her finger went through the soggy paper and into the soft, squelchy turd. Bleurgh! Still, she continued her quest like a trooper as I swallowed my own sick and attempted to stop Baby L from picking up a floater.
As the water disappeared and the last brown chunks followed, I reached for the shower head attached to the bath. I turned it on full blast and realised that this must be what it felt like to be a fireman. A hero, with a hose, using water to deal with a disastrous situation.
I swilled the bath out a few times, then laid Baby L down in the empty bath. By this point she’d stopped grunting but was on the cusp of crying. I hosed her down with the water. This tipped her over the edge. Now, she screamed with such a verocity that I’m sure the next door neighbours were starting to dial Child Services.
Still, I cracked on. I fired the water into every chubby fold she owned. With a precision only associated with Crime Scene Investigators, I ensured no brown invaders had become lodged on her skin.
Now it was the missus’ turn to shine. She poured body wash onto the little one and lathered her up. Once covered head to toe, I hosed her down once more.
The baby was detoxified. The missus dried the sprog with a towel as I poured gallons of drain unblocker down the plug hole just in case it had reformed and wanted to resurface at a later date.
The ordeal was over. We’d survived – well, survived physically, perhaps not mentally or emotionally.
I imagine that this episode will follow me through life though. Perhaps even haunt me at every turn. Every time I see a bath, I’ll freeze and my heartbeat will increase. Whenever I look at my daughter, I’ll be torn between feelings of complete love and utter disgust.
And they say that being a parent is the best job in the world!
Have you ever suffered the horrors of a floater in the bath? If so, how did you deal with it? What disgusting things have your kids done which means you struggle to look them in the eye on a daily basis?
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