Holding It In

(Warning:  This is a blog post about poo.  And wee.  If you are a parent, you'll find this to be a perfectly acceptable topic of discussion.  Otherwise, you will most likely feel like puking.) 

I never, ever, ever, ever, EVER thought bodily functions would be so significant as to warrant a written article, on my blog, on the internet. If it wasn't so disgusting it would be downright fascinating. But, from the instant a baby pops its head out of your vagina (or C-Section incision), the world will only turn on its axis if the infant shits and pees like a normal human being.  In the first few weeks of its life you are taught by doctors and midwives that your baby's bowel movement is just about the most important thing to happen in its day.  And so you observe (with scary precision) every utterance from its miniature sphincter.  

Projectile vomiting.  You read about it, you hear people talk about it but like bungee jumping, you can't ever really know the adrenalin rush of emerging from a waterfall of vomit, until it actually happens.  Which is usually at the following times: on your way out the door, before guests arrive for dinner and/or as you step out of the shower.  The amount of fluid that is ejected from a stomach purported to be the size of a MARBLE, is somewhat of a scientific anomaly and should really be studied in textbooks. 

But if you want to know the real definition of anticipation, then take your potty-training toddler on its first nappy-free outing.  With the threat of public urination (or worse) hanging over your head, you subject your child (loudly) to a stream of socially unacceptable questions every 15 minutes.  'Do you need to wee?  Do you want to make a poo?  Are you sure!?' and so it goes on.  But the humiliation doesn't end there.

If you're lucky enough to actually make it to a toilet and someone is unlucky enough to be stuck in the cubicle next to yours, they will be treated to a conversation that goes something like this:

'Pull your pants down. Sit nicely, OK hold your willy down so you don't wee on the toilet seat, good boy.  Have you finished?  You're having a poo?  It's OK I'm holding you I won't let you fall in.  You want to sing? (dear god) baa, baa black sheep have you any .... you want to get off?  OK let me wipe, no, don't pull your pants up yet I have to wipe your bum.  Bend down touch your toes, I can't see your bum properly.  Theeeeere we go.  All clean!!'

Freud, the skanky old coke addict,  might've been onto something.

Needless to say we survived uShaka Marine World (sans nappy) without so much as a wayward piddle.   I'm not sure if this was due to Finn's powers of retention or sheer luck, but I'm convinced I almost died from the suspense.

Mr Priceless

Me, my 2.5 year old, Mr Price Home.

I'm facing the wall of bed linen, frantically searching for something cotton, something white-ish, single bed come on, come on!   I know I have a window period of about 47 seconds before the attention span of my son runs out.

My time is up (where's the freaking single bed linen!) I turn around to look for a shop assistant and in that billionth of a second, Finn is gone.  I know he hasn't bolted out the door because I'm facing it and in my mind I see his glee as he races up the aisles of fine bone china and glassware, I see the outstretched hands as they take in all the pretty colours, I see his clumsy feet tripping over each other and the glorious majestic sound of shattering glass and falling shelves.  But nothing happens.  I'm clasping my hands together staring at the ceiling, I look like I'm praying.  I probably should be.

No sooner had that thought bubble taken flight, it was blown away like a fart in the wind. 

'YEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!'

I skulk around the corner and there he is; inside a baby's cot, chucking all the brand new pristine white 200% cotton pillows, sheets and soft mohair, untouched blankets onto the floor, jumping up & down on the specially aerated, anti-fungus, sterilised, a-thousand rand perfect mattress with his dirty shoes - and yelling at the top of his lungs.

Holy hell that's my child.  That's.  MY Child.

I consider running away.  But some do-gooder will report me to child welfare.  I weigh up the benefits of spending years in prison versus admitting he belongs to me.  Prison almost wins.  

A member of Mr Price Home comes bolting across the showroom floor, grabs Finn under his arms and yanks him out.  And then it goes next level.  Finn takes the cuddly soft toys surrounding the cot and throws them at the shop assistant.

'NO!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!'

I'm trying to leopard crawl out of the shop wondering if prison overalls come in pink, but he spots me.

'MOMMMMMMMYYYYYYYY'

The entire world is staring; even the guy in orbit has ceased his space travel to get a load of this shit.

I take a deep breath, count to 4000 and then I go all Trinity from Matrix on his ass. Double somersaulting over scatter cushions and this week's 'Special Offer' I pick him up with one-hand (potentially) dislocating his shoulder; knock everyone dead with the rage that is emanating out of every pore of my body, fly down the escalator, windows shattering as I pass, and throw my child (who has suddenly realised the magnitude of poo that he is in) into the car.

I lock it.  I unlock it.  I walk away.  I come back.  There is a guy in a white BMW gawping at me I think he is afraid to get out of his car.  Finn is sobbing, it's not even 10 am and I still don't have any single bed linen.  Jesus fucking christ.

As my anger ebbs away, I look at Finn all red in the face, covered in tears & snot staring at me through the window, his impossibly massive eyes imploring me to take off the black leather cape and become his mommy again.  I open the door, he dissolves into my arms and we sit on the floor in the parking lot with the cars inching past our toes.

People keep asking me when I'm having the next baby.  Well I can tell you that as I sat there leaning against a greasy wheel with my weeping child, I saw my ovaries taking a walk, little suitcases in hand, hats on their heads, waving goodbye as they went.

So, not anytime soon it would seem.