Wednesday, 4 April 2012

When I was younger I used to sometimes wonder where I would be in ten years time or in twenty years time.  Somehow I never thought to myself “Ooh I hope I will be crawling on my hands and knees up the stairs, sniffing the carpet on every step to try to map out a two-and-a-half year-old’s poo-trail.”
That’s what I did today.  Yes, today was that special. 

I have noticed recently that Ben and Thomas seem to have devised a new way to drive me demented.  Instead of both being simultaneously fiendish, they are running a sort of good-cop, bad-cop gig.  One lulls me into a false sense of security by batting his big, innocent eyes (Ben) or snuggling up while cooing “I lub you, mummy” (Thomas) and just as I am beginning to relax, the other one lets me have it with both barrels.
Today, the barrels contained poo.

Ben kick-started the good-cop routine by feeding without moaning and whinging, and by impressing the health visitor with his weight gain.  The morning was smooth and trouble-free.  And then Thomas went into action.  Having thrown up at nursery, necessitating me retrieving him in case he was contagious, he then went into hyperactive overdrive just to rub in that there wasn’t a bloody thing wrong with him.  It took several attempts to get him down for a nap but eventually silence fell upstairs.
Now what I obviously should have thought at that point was “What is he up to?” rather than “Oh good, he’s asleep” but I had a guest and wanted to believe that I was actually going to be allowed to finish a cup of tea.

“Mummeeeee.  I’ve got something on my feet.”
A little figure appeared in the room, balancing on his heels to avoid his whole foot touching the ground.  The reason for this quickly made itself apparent to my nose.  Thomas, it transpired, had decided, for reasons best known to himself, to reject the potty and the nappy in favour of the inside of the trousers.  Trousers aren’t terribly good at containing poo due to the holes at the bottom so his progress round the house was marked by a stinky, little trail.

I made some enquiries about where the poo had begun. 
“In Daddy’s box,” he said.

Which box would this be?
“Oh, don’t know,” he said, looking around vaguely. 

I followed the smelly path and discovered that “Daddy’s box” was the toolbox which had been dragged from under the spare room bed and systematically emptied.  He was clearly so engrossed in this task that he couldn’t possibly have left it for something so minor as a toilet trip.
So while the two of them exchanged conspiratorial looks downstairs, I carried out a deep-clean of every floor that he could possibly have traversed on his way to announce the poo.

The thought came to me – what would my Gran have done?  I checked the little book of wisdom and could find nothing on Removing Poo from Household Surfaces but I can bring you this useful little Grannell of the Day:

Mildewed Articles soaked in sour milk will remove all traces of stains.

But you will presumably walk around smelling like a broken fridge.
Oh well, better than smelling of poo, I suppose.  Back to sniffing the floor…

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