There are days when things happen to test us.
Yesterday, it was not just Mammy who was tested by events. No. Mammy AND Daddy and our marriage in general were tested. By what? By who?
By our Princess Poonami.
“She’s a great age now. We can go anywhere and it’s so much easier than when she was tiny” scoffed Mammy to her cousin-with-older-kids at approximately 5.10pm. We were standing watching our minions playing in the garden at Granny-Mary-Queen-Mother-of-the-whole-wide-world’s birthday party.
“All I need now is to throw a nappy in my handbag and go! No need to be lugging half the house around anymore!” Mammy was so sure of herself. Cousin with older kids agreed. How smug and fablis Mammy is about how clutter free Mammying is when out and about now that my wobbler is 2. Smug mammy. Silly Mammy.
“Mammy. We have a poonami!” I hear The Him call.
“Sorry what? We do not have poonamis anymore. Silly Daddy. Don’t you know that our mini is now of the post-poonami age? You have made a mistake. Check that you have lifted the correct child from the garden. You must be mistaken.”
Mammy is past the point of the Poonami. I am no longer THAT Mammy. I no longer have to carry a changing bag. I no longer have to remove brown sticky vests from the back of my child. I have past this stage. I am Poonami free..,
Except that I am not. And when I look up, the child in The Him’s arms is indeed mine. He is pretending that she is an aeroplane, so as not to have to touch the bum region. Of course, this WOULD be the first day she is wearing a dress and is bare legged and so I can already see the rivulet which SHOULD have been held inside leggins, trickling down the crevaces of her fat little legs. And the unmistakeable smell wafting from her arse can only be one thing. Yup. Poonami.
And all that I have in my handbag is a single nappy.
Who’s smug now?
My sister calls out “My baby bag is in the hall. GO GO GO!!” and GO GO GO we GO.
There are approximately 120 people in Granny-Mary-Queen-Mother-of-the-whole-wide-world’s house, through which we have to manouvre the leaking posterier of the aeroplane baby. She is “WEEEE”ing with glee as Daddy flies her through the crowd.
Scuse us. Poonami alert, poonami alert. We rush to the spare room and throw a towel onto the bed. Princes Poonami is having a great oul laugh as we rummage through the sister’s baby bag for nappies and wipes.
I’m about to start changing her and I look at the Him. He looks at me. And we know that we are both thinking the same thing… HOW the fuck do we do this?
You know how they say that a parent forgets all the bad stuff…the labour pains, the pain pain, the recovery, the exhaustion…well it seems that we also block out the cleaning up of the bum explosions too. Because for a few seconds, neither of us had a clue where to start!
Right. We can do this. And for the next 10 minutes. (Yes, it took 10 minutes, such was the extent and reach of the exposion.) we were a tag team. Back in the throes of early parenthood. Working together. A team with one purpose. Our marriage being strengthened, tested and verified by a shitty nappy.
“Nappies…nappies.” “Wipe…wipe.” “Hold that.” “Wait wait wait!” “Watch her hair.” “Mind the bed” “You missed that bit on her neck” “Fuck fuck fuck!” “Is that it?” “WTF? HOW did it get in THERE?” “Where will I put this?” “Go get a plastic bag. NO a Bin bag!” “Christ the smell…” “Get your HANDS out of THERE!”
The bumbag went into the binbag. The clothes and towel went into another one. The Wobbler was dressed in a spare outfit that my sister-who-will-always-be-prepared-for-all-eventualities-and-is-not-a-smug-relaxed-twat-like-Mammy-here had packed for her girl. And at the end, Mammy and Daddy hi-fived. Yes. We did. That’s how proud of ourselves we were.
“Still got it Daddy” says Mammy.
“Hell yeah!” says Daddy.
“I dood a pooooooo” said Princess.
No Shit Sherlock!
Lesson learned. Mammy needs to go back to keeping a changing bag in the boot of the car. Be prepared for all seasons…and remember that when she is on an antibiotic, there is a high chance of poonami, whatever age she is.
And together, there is no shitstorm that Mammy and Daddy can’t handle together.