It has been a shitty day. I mean seriously, Newborn (ish) has shat two of his loveliest babygros and his lovely new amazing baby soothing vibrating baby miracle chair. The seeping orange menace is EVERYWHERE. Me, him, clothes, the changing mat.
Not huge pools that could be cleared up easily you understand, but tiny smears sneaking around and hiding on cheeks and crevices. Nothing screams motherhood more than looking in the mirror and thinking ‘Eurgh, what’s that shit on my face. Oh, it is SHIT. On MY FACE’.
To make matters worse, me rantier, and add to the general rainbow myriad of crap (and puke) that coloured our day Newborn’s BCG jab exploded too spurting green gunk and blood on both of us. Is this normal? I ponder whilst giving him an impromptu soak in the sink (careful not to splash the pus volcano). And realise how would I know, because I have lost his red book. Nice one thatwoman. Mother. Of. The. Year.
Luckily I’ve calmed down, and so has he, and we had a spur of the moment sing out in the kitchen. Thunder Road meets Twinkle Twinkle – diamonds for him and roses thrown in the rain to reawaken my fictional blue colour 70s youth for me. And, well, his wound is clean and the babygros will wash. And if they don’t, we’ll survive. And hopefully I’ll convincing the Health Visitors that I’ve only lost the book, not the plot this time.