Mum seems worried that this blog has gotten overly scatalogical. I think she's forgotten how bodily fluids dominate the life of a mother of two kids in nappies. Still, one likes to keep oneself nice. So in this post all poo and poo-related products will be referred to as 'orange blossoms.'
Let's just say there have been a shitload of orange blossoms in my life today.
Late this afternoon I noticed a little pile of orange blossoms on the rug. I don't know whose - Teddy has just started eating real food and his orange blossoms have become more pungent by the hour. On the floor was a little orange blossom footprint, which sent me on patrol. Oh look, some lovely orange blossom on the sheepskin. Earlier today Ted threw up pumpkin on the couch cover so I put it in the wash, leaving the cushion bare for the steath bomber to deposit a little orange blossom present there too. Joy!
I haven't found any more yet, but I remain afraid.
Toilet training looms ever closer with Ivy, but I'm really not sure how it's going to go. Ivy's relationship with orange blossoms seems a little off, to be honest. Last month we had an Incident in the bath which involved Ivy standing up, wailing, orange blossom in each hand, as Keith called for help and tried to stop her putting her fingers in her mouth. The next day she talked about the chocolate Daddy wouldn't let her eat in the bath. I think in toddler-therapy they call it a 'disconnect.'
Last week, as I changed her nappy, she said 'That's a poo, Mummy. Don't eat it with a spoon.' Language construction: spectacular. Content: a little alarming. When we put her on the toilet or the potty to practice, she just makes a terrible grunting noise then announces 'Poo!' (Sorry Mum: 'Orange blossom!') Obviously we need to eat more fibre, and also, perhaps, engage the services of Dr. Freud.