It was a day like any other. It was the day after Mummy’s birthday and we were out for an early evening meal with Daddy, Nana and Grandad T. It was a lovely day. We played, Nana took me for a walk, we went to the nice local pub for a drink and a meal.
It started so well. I said hello to a nice doggy, the big people had a drink and I played with some toys and ate a few Quavers to stop me from becoming a demonic hungry child.
It almost went horribly wrong when Nana nearly forgot to order my dinner, but she gives nice cuddles and takes me to see sheep, so I forgive her.
We moved through to the restaurant, where my favourite barmaid (which everyone should have when they are 13 months old) had left balloons, crayons and a lovely message telling me they love me there. I don’t blame them, I am pretty cute. I did my first ever drawing which Mummy was was very happy about and is keeping forever.
All the food came. Mummy spent a couple of minutes cutting my food up and feeding me some. She even picked up a couple of bits I didn’t deign to be good enough and threw behind me. She’s a good egg. That’s why I waited.
I waited until Mummy took her first bite of lovely steak, and I did a little push. Daddy told me there was a time and place, but it was too late.
As Mummy looked over to see what all the fuss was about, she saw an eruption of brown sludge appear over the top of my nappy and trousers. It bubbled over like nothing she had seen before, whole blueberries and all, and although she did her best to save my new jumper from the onslaught, a small section of the hem was a sad casualty. Not as bad a casualty as my trousers, though, which took the brunt of the mud slide. Mummy thought there could not possibly be any more, but after a (very) brief interlude, it continued to appear, sliding down on to the back of the high chair, and down on to the floor.
Mummy stayed surprisingly calm, not wanting to alert other innocent diners to the horrors that were unfolding.
“Get the wipes and help me!” She hissed at Daddy, who seemed oblivious. So as I continued eating my dinner, Mummy and Daddy quickly wiped up the offending matter, smuggled me into the baby changing room and started to clean me up. The thing is, we had been on an aeroplane to go to Nana’s house, so in an effort to save space, Mummy had removed my spare clothes from the changing bag for the first time in over a year. Mummy muttered naughty words under her breath, and I was taken back to my high chair in my jumper and nappy.
After hurriedly finishing what would have been a lovely meal, Mummy and Daddy took me back to Nana’s house and put my dirty clothes in the wash. I played for a bit before bedtime.
It couldn’t get any worse, right?
Mummy and Daddy read me my story before bed, and Mummy sat cuddling me with my bedtime bottle. I didn’t want much, but that was OK. Mummy put the bottle down and lowered me gently into my travelcot.
As she turned to get the bottle and quietly leave the room, Mummy thought she heard a little noise. She turned to check on me and saw an eruption of milk and half-chewed dinner appearing from my mouth. She lifted me up and shouted for Daddy and Nana, who looked horrified when they entered the room. The sick was everywhere – in the cot, on the floor, mine and Mummy’s clothes and hair were soaked in it. Mummy even had some smeared down her face.
Again, I was stripped off. Nana bunched up my sheet and carried it like a napsack to the kitchen, where she found there was so much sick she had to tip it into the bin before rinsing and putting everything into the washing machine. Daddy cleaned up the rest of the cot, and Mummy took me into the shower with her to try to wash the nastiness off us both.
A couple of hours later, after another disgusting, but not as eventful, nappy change, I was finally asleep in my clean cot. Mummy and Daddy were exhausted.
It couldn’t get any worse, right?
Over the next two days, as I was feeling much better, first Daddy, then Mummy and Nana, and then Grandad T all caught whatever had made me so poorly. For a small person, I am quite a force of nature, taking four grown adults down with me.
So there it is. The story of one small boy and an eruption from both ends – one that Mummy needs at least a year to recover from, and a large glass of wine… once she stops being ill herself.