Tuesday, 14 October 2014

A Traumatic Incident

Apparently a good way to exorcise traumatic incidents is to write about them. It can help you shelve that particular episode and achieve, my favourite Americanism, closure.

Something happened a few months ago that I thought I was over, until I had to relive it yesterday telling my mother-in-law. Just talking about it dragged me back. I think the only way to truly put it to rest is to write it down here.

It was the Sunday at the end of this glorious holiday. We were home and the impending specter of normality was looming. In a last attempt to clasp onto the holiday vibe for just a few short hours more the husband and I decided to go out to lunch, with Olive.

A new restaurant had opened nearby which had had good reviews so we decided to give it a go.

It started off well, in that we got a table. It went downhill from there.

No sooner had we sat down and ordered our starters than Olive made her presence know in the smelliest possible way. I had cunningly manoeuvred myself into a position, squeezed into a corner, that made the husband the obvious choice for changing her nappy.

I felt rather smug as I handed her over.

The husband returned ten minutes later.

Shaken.

In no uncertain terms he told me next time our darling, radiant daughter needed her nappy changed it was my turn.

My turn came far too quickly just as we'd finished the starters an unholy stench filled the room.

I grabbed the changing mat and took her to the loos. There was no handy pull down changing table, the two toilets were minute, the only option was to plonk our changing mat on the floor outside the (thankfully empty) cubicles in the tiny area where the sinks are.

I unpeeled her vest as it was stuck to her with the cement of liquified poo that her nappy had had no chance of containing. The poo continued to drip on the mat that I had been about to lay Olive down on, on to the floor, on my hands.

I didn't know where to start with the tsunami of shit. So decided to tackle the mat first.

Olive scurried off on all fours into one of the cubicles.

I ignored her as I wiped the mat down, and the floor and the bit of skirting board that had been sullied. I looked up and saw a delighted looking Olive sitting, naked, a few yards away in a freshly laid pool of poo. At least, I figured, it couldn't get any worse.

The automatic lights, installed to save electricity, clearly couldn't register a tiny baby and a woman crouching on the floor. They flicked off. It was now pitch black.

It had got worse.

I threw a hand up in the air waved.

Nothing.

I stood up and jumped around.

Nothing.

I could hear Olive moving about but was completely disorientated.

I had to edge towards the door not knowing if I was about to step on my daughter, or worse, step in poo.

I opened the door the lights came on.

Olive had moved from the first cubical into the second leaving a distinctive trail in her wake.

Eventually I managed to grab her. Wipe her down. Put a nappy on her. And using most of my remaining baby wipes cleaned the floor as best I could.

The vest and nappy went in a bag in the bin.

I didn't have a spare vest so pulled her little jeans back on her and had to do the walk of shame back through the restaurant clutching a bare chested baby looking not unlike Vladimir Putin on one of his outdoor pursuit activities.

The husband had almost finished his main course.

I can't tell you what my food tasted like. I just wanted to eat it and get out of there. I also felt I should warn the staff about the smell in the ladies loos so I went to the bar area and collared a guy.

I confided in a member of staff "I'm really sorry but I've just had to change my baby in the loos and it sort of ... went everywhere. I've tried to clear it up as much as possible but it might be worth giving it a quick mop."

The guy nodded sympathetically then said, "Yeah I work in the kitchen you should tell that man." And he scarpered.

It is embarrassing enough telling one person that your baby has shat all over their new tiles, to do it a second time is mortifying.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur. We left as soon as we could.

I will never go back.

I always said I wanted a baby for shits and giggles. I got the shits, I hope you got the giggles...



6 comments:

  1. I definitely got the giggles (as did Olive, it would appear) and cringes - I can't imagine my child crawling around a public bathroom floor. I would have had to take her home and drop her into a giant bleach/disinfectant bath.

    And how rude of the kitchen guy! He should have at least passed along the message...

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  2. Just wait 'til you're potty training and your 2 1/2 year old does something similar, but in the textile section of Ikea. In her knickers. Have you ever tried to get out of Ikea in a hurry, against the one way system??

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  3. Ahh sorry I had to laugh :) the poo explosions are the worst! I am sorry it ruined your lovely day out!

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  4. Thanks for sharing.. this was funny.. to us.. I'm sure not to you though! Wow, it was not only an explosion but everywhere in the loo. So sorry!

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  5. Oh noes! No-ness! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! Words fail me, really.

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  6. OOOH I feel this pain! We had a similar experience recently, oh the mess! I actually had to leave the restaraunt and go buy him a change of clothes! Another time, there was poo dripping into the shopping cart and onto the floor, it was horrific!

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I've resisted word verification for ages but I'm getting so many spam comments at the moment that I think it is time. Sorry!