One of the distinct disadvantages of this nomadic lifestyle that I lead is not having a home base. I live forty frillion miles away from where I grew up. My parents' house is in another country, a ten-hour drive away from my home town. Revisiting my old hood and reconnecting with my childhood friends, therefore, is not a simple operation.
Enter my kind and generous aunt, who is so kind and generous that she willingly, and without a peep of complaint, offers up her perfectly styled and perfectly orderly house to fill the role of our familial home. So kind and generous is she, that she hosts Woodrooffe Conventions just about every quarter, patiently putting up with all the mountains of junk that take over her living room, tolerating her phone ringing incessantly with callers looking for stray Woodrooffes, welcoming late-night Woodrooffes, who show up at her doorstep past eleven PM to crash on her couch, and she never objects to the lack of planning and general chaos that walks hand-in-hand with the Woodrooffes.
On this particular visit, my aunty, kindly and generously let me host a dinner party for eight, allowing me to monoploize her kitchen for an entire day while I filled every spare inch of her delicious new kitchen (her pride and joy, by the way) with dirty cooking vessels and sauce-incrusted utensils.
And how do I repay this kind and generous aunt? Well, here's how:
I open my eyes, early on Sunday morning in my aunt’s gorgeous guest bedroom next to my baby. I reach over to lovingly caress my sweet girl, only to discover that she is suspiciously wet. Oh, dear, I thought. These mothereffing eco-diapers do not stand up to the rigours of all-night nursing sessions. No matter, a quick morning bath, load of laundry, and a trip to the grocery store for another pack of diapers will rectify this situation. And that was that. Until this morning.
We awoke, much as we did yesterday. I reached over, hoping to discover a dry baby. But lo, there was a tell-tale wet patch. But this time, not in the usual spot. Shit. Literally. I stripped the baby, peeling layers of dirty, poopy pyjamas. Shit. I fumbled around one handily looking for the equipment that I needed to solve this problem. SHIT! Wipes, diapers, changing mat, hazmat suit, it’s all buried below the contents of my suitcase which, much like my child's bowels, had exploded on my aunt's guest bedroom floor. Shit shit shit shit SHIT! I held baby draped precariously over my forearm, trying my darndest to prevent any cross-pyjama-contamination and made my way to the bathroom.
Into the bath for a rinse. Another bath for a deep clean. And, just as I was about to pull Stella from the bath, and into the embrace of a warm towel, SHE POOPED IN THE TUB. That inevitable, dreaded parental milestone, the tub-poop happened NOT AT MY HOUSE. I was a guest. POO-POO FLECKS EVERYWHERE. Not at my houuuuuuuse! SHAME! EMBARASSMENT! SHHIIIIIIITTTTT!
Thank you for hosting me, aunty. And for putting up with my crazy family. And my crying baby. And our general chaos. I will repay you with a poopy bathtub.
Poo-poo is becoming a theme on this blog. So much so that I have managed to optimize my blog for the search terms poo-poo flecks. Google it, bitches, I'm number one!