Code Brown

This is a post about poo. Those of you who live in my world may appreciate it. Those of you reading it who don't dabble in it daily may prefer to skip this post. You have been warned! I'll sling a photo at the bottom (not poo-related) so you know when it is safe to start reading again.

It is amazing how far poo can spread. Before today, Little Fish was the winner in the poo spreading competition. Take one set of loose bowels, and one wheelchair with large bicycle style wheels (plenty of spokes. Sit explosive child in the wheelchair, watch helplessly as diarrhea seeps out of the top of the nappy and drips onto the wheels of the chair. Shout in horror. This will scare the child, who will propel themselves rapidly towards you as poo continues to drip down. Centrifugal force will ensure the poo droplets are scattered freely as the wheels turn - a rare case of the poo actually hitting the fan.

That was then. This is now. Little Fish is a bit of a sheepdog; the easiest way to upset her is to exclude her from a room. The easiest way to keep her in a good mood is to allow her to help me in everything I do. This does get a bit personal at times; how do you gently explain to a child that whilst yes, I do indeed wipe her bottom for her, I don't in fact need help wiping my own? Not me today though but Mog in need of a change.

So, I go to lift Mog onto the changing bench to be greeted by Little Fish's ear shattering squeaks about being left in her wheelchair. I scoop her up and sat her by Mog's feet, feeling my feet slip in something as I d so. Looking down I make the always pleasing discovery of a nice poo puddle in Mog's wheelchair, combined with a pretty sprinkling of droplets across the floor and sides of the bench, and a further poo puddle now sitting pretty on the clean white towel I had not moved out of the way left on the bench to protect Mog from the coldness of the plastic. Marvelous.

I start to strip Mog off, attempting to pivot Little Fish around as I do so, to keep her pink polka dot boots out of the mess. Little Fish struggles and wriggles, creating ripples across the bench, which in turn send a fine tidal wave of poo from the top of Mog's pad up towards her shoulder blades. This is not your average daily poo here, this is the cumulative effect of several days coughing up phlegm from deep inside your lungs and then swallowing it instead of spitting. It is pale brown and vaguely jelly like, with a deeply offensive odour. Just painting the word picture here (aren't you glad I resisted the camera?), trying to share the misery keep things real.

So, ignoring Little Fish and refusing to allow her immediate access to her toothbrush, I concentrate on cleaning Mog. And her wheelchair. And the floor, bench, bathtub under the bench, and my feet. Finally I have a large pile of vile laundry which I wrap in the least offensive item and post into the washing machine. Forget eco friendly washing at 30, this little lot is on a boil wash with double helpings of washing liquid.

Back to the bathroom, and I return Mog to her chair. She is grinning. I am suspicious. One further change of inco pad, and now dressed in her pyjamas (for ease of removal next time) later, she is finally reinstalled in her wheelchair. Where she proceeds to show me just how blue her arms and legs can turn now that she's coming off the Lamotrigine, but that's another post).

Little Fish is now left on the bench in solitary splendour. She objects when I begin to push Mog out of the bathroom, so leaving Mog beside me I now start to change Little Fish. Hand wash then drops in her eye, hand wash again then new dressing on her stoma, hand wash again then finally on to her own nappy. Bearing in mind she has not in fact started the co-amoxiclav at this point in time due to delivery issues, I am somewhat surprised to discover that she too is thickly coated in the brown stuff. As I clean her up she starts to poo again, so I whip her off the bench in an attempt to get to her commode, forgetting that Mog is blocking the way. With hindsight, this was not a good thing to forget. Mog narrowly avoids being pood upon from a great height as I somehow fling Little Fish, bottom end first, towards the toilet. She doesn't hit the toilet, she doesn't hit the commode, big soggy splats of poo instead drip across the floor looking like giant Hersheys kisses. But no contact with Mog or my feet or the cat, so this will count as a bonus.

Back onto the bench and I clean her up, now adding her newest nappy rash cream. It's a prescription cream, and as I open it I discover it needs to be kept in the 'fridge. It's a good job she's not got much feeling! First dose of co-amoxiclav has been administered and I await with slight trepidation the effects this will have. Meanwhile, scrubbing the bathroom floor is always interesting - it has a non-slip flooring which is not unlike fine sandpaper. Good for walking on when it's wet, but have you ever tried cleaning poo out of sandpaper? Or velcro?

And now as I write this Mog has produced further vileness.

Can I resign from motherhood now please?

And for all those of you who were skipping to the bottom, here's a pretty picture to let you know I've stopped.

Tia