We apparently make snotty babies. Snotty like not sleeping because they’re gargling on their own phlegm. Snotty like the pediatric staff at A&E recognising us and greeting us by name. Son number three had five hospital visits for bronchiolitis in his first year; the nurses who weren’t welcoming us back started mistakenly asking if I were medical, as I was so down with the lingo. (My top tip to any parents going through the same thing is get yourself a sats monitor. If it’s 94+ you can blast them with 10 puffs of the inhaler and keep monitoring; if it goes below that you need to go in. Oh, and keep a hospital bag ready. I’ve twice tried to call off ambulances so that I could pack a bag and drive us in myself – one agreed, one didn’t, but neither was impressed.)
I’ve dealt with worse than snot through. I contracted C difficile after a C-section. I had a baby who would spectacularly vomit if he went near dairy. And that was all before poo almost literally hit fans in our house. Ah, I could write MANY a post about our experiences with children's poo problems. I even earned myself the catchy and I’m sure kindly meant nickname Poo Queen amongst our mummy friends. Here's a blog just dedicated to this particular bodily fluid: https://sarahhadfi.wixsite.com/website/post/on-being-the-poo-queen
It seems small children are just a bit… yucky. I know ours had their particular bodily fluid party tricks, but I’m pretty sure they weren’t the only ones.
We had son number two just as my granddad was reaching his final days, and I was determined to make the journey up north so the two of them could meet. I’m really glad they did. But that mad flying trip was not short of bodily fluids. Two under two and in nappies, I’d just given birth and so was bleeding and producing milk that the baby would then spit up, and then the stitches which were a gift to me courtesy of my son’s abnormally large head started oozing yellow pus, which nearly tipped me over the edge. Soon afterwards, we had to make a return trip for the funeral, and I remember chatting to my cousin who had also had a baby and was pumping milk in the toilets at the wake.
Early parenting isn’t exactly glamourous, is it? More laying down your life in service to the demands of tiny, yucky dictators.
But spare a thought for the childminders, nannies, carers and nurses who daily deal with other people's children’s excretions.
I once texted our sainted childminder to ask if she’d still be willing to take my son even though he was coughing himself sick. She graciously agreed so I could get to work, and later texted that they’d been dealing with snot, sick and poo all at once, which sounds an exciting combination. And made me very happy to be at work.
I recently found myself scraping poo off the carpet with my fingernails whilst berating a bunch of boys that they mustn’t walk round with their ice creams and drop chocolate on the floor. It’s kind of funny that I was then not as grossed out by the thought of touching another child’s poo as I might have been. It certainly wasn't the first time. Maybe we just get used to it?
We’ve also recently been dealing with nits and then worms and associated fests of shampooing and combing and medicating and hot washing everything in sight (“So what?” says my friend who not long ago had a SIMULTANEOUS episode - major respect for that!). This is supposedly in a time of social distancing and practising good hand hygiene – ha! – and in children who are forced to take daily baths and wear clean clothes. I wonder how disgusting Oliver Twist and rest of the Victorian orphans were?
And what have I learnt through this humbling, damp stage? Not in the midst of the mess, but on reflection, I can see there is perhaps some merit, some glory even in the yuck. And maybe appreciate that if God himself can sleep with animals and wash feet, then I am not above getting poo-y fingernails in the care of his most vulnerable and precious creations.
Oh, and washing your hands is pretty important too.
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