Wednesday, 1 January 2014


Good morning, mommies. I trust you are all doing well after last evening's festivities. I'm sure the mutant fish that loiter at The Bubble are having a lovely meal of used condoms (or Plan B packages), champagne vomit, and boozy, dumped breast milk this morning (even though Dr. Jack Newman says there's no need to do that anymore!). 

I myself am feeling pretty good. But in general I'm exhausted and going around with eyes like two piss holes in the snow, so the only difference between a hangover and a regular day for me now is the level of nausea and whether or not I need a feed of grease. But I digress...

As a little Christmas and New Year's gift to you all, I decided I would share a story that somehow managed to slip through the cracks of my little bloggie, and also a story that is excellent on a queasy, hungover gut. So pop a Gravol, pour a coffee, and throw on some cartoons (preferrably not Caillou, he's bad on the head after 13 hours of sleep and when you're fully hydrated) to silence your kids who are probably too loud today no matter how quiet they are. Let's begin...

Once upon a time, I was 40 weeks pregnant with Liam. I had my 40 week checkup coming up and made sure to let the sitter know that Avery would be there that day. My appointment was at ten, so I figured I'd get up at eight when Brad left for work, like I do almost every morning. Avery is up then anyway. I'd get her dressed, bring her to daycare, pop in for a little while until she calmed down (she wasn't great getting dropped off), and be twenty minutes early for my appointment. Perfect. 

As I'm sure you all know by now, if you know anything about me at all, nothing ever goes the way I have it planned out in my head. Ever. 

Before I get into the nitty gritty of it all, it's important that I first lay it out that when I am pregnant, as soon as my head hits the pillow, I can't breathe through my nose. I'm a total mouth breather at night as soon as the sperm hits the egg. Super hot, I know. I bet Brad loved waking up to me all big and round with my clogged up nose and my open mouth, probably with drool trickling out of the corner. I also know I'd let out the occasional snore too because I'd wake myself. And I'd fart in my sleep. And also when I was awake. And maybe I still do. What? 

Basically when I'm pregnant I'm just a gigantic ball of gorgeousness and I ooze sexuality for a solid nine months. Through every orifice. 

So on this particular morning, I'm conked out with my gob agape, farting and snoring and just generally being the sex bomb that I am, when I hear two little feet run into the bedroom. I'm facing the other way, pick up my cell and see that it's 9:00. Well, shit. Looks like A-bomb is coming to the doctor with mommy. Now that I don't have to frig around with dropping her off though, I can totally get another fifteen minutes in the sack. I sent a quick text to the sitter, and cuddled back down into the sheets as Avery climbed in the bed behind me. 

I was just closing my eyes when I heard her say in her sweet little voice, "Oh no, mommy! Dirty!"

She had had a snack before bed of some toast with jam, so I assumed there was some jam on her nightie that she was complaining about. "No, baby, " I began as I rolled over to look at her, "that's probably just, GENTLE JESUS!"

Again, let's reiterate that I was completely clogged up in the nasal region and therefore could smell nothing. I rolled over in my bed to none other than the biggest shit smear I have ever encountered in my entire life. 

Let's put that into perspective. I spent three of the four years in nursing school working in a nursing home with elderly residents who had Alzheimer's and dementia. In between this I was doing clinicals in various areas of hospitals, and then I went to work on a general surgery unit where most of our patients were in for bowel surgeries, before working in intensive care and then the ER. I can tell you for certain that I know a shit storm. This was a shit storm. Or as we say in the medical field, a "code brown". 

Shit was literally smeared on the fitted sheet from the base of the mattress, right up to where Nixon was trying to have a snooze. Shit was all over the sheets and all over the comforter, and some even got on poor old Nix. It was unreal. There were crumbs of shit in my bed. Little balls of dried shit. Unbelievable. 

The iPhone pictures do NOT do it justice 
but I was too frantic to focus and needed 
evidence as Brad didn't believe me. 

I picked Avery up in a way one might pick up the most diseased and heinous creature they have ever encountered. I intended to give her a bath, but in reality I wanted to autoclave her. When I attempted to leave the bedroom though, I was faced with even more shit. 

There was shit on the walls, shit in the hallway, shit footprints, shit nuggets. There was shit smashed into the rugs in Avery's room and the baby's room. It was like while I was sleeping, Avery hosted some class of shit rave. With strobe lights and lasers and glow sticks. And shit. 

It was 9:20am. 

I stood in my bedroom doorway holding Avery as far away from me as my arms could get her, and just stared in awe. It was time to call Brad. 

I ran the bath, stood Avery on a towel, and in a panicked voice told her not to move. I tore back into our bedroom and frantically tried to get the uncooperative duvet cover off the duvet while dialing Brad's work number and trying to hold the phone to my ear with my face and shoulder. 


"What are you talking about? Keep your voice down."
"Brad, I am not screwing around! There is seriously shit all over the fucking house! You need to come home. I have a doctors appointment in 35 minutes!"

"Lauren, I'm at work. It can't be that bad. Give it up."
"Get the fuck home. I'm serious."
End call. 

Within five minutes, I heard the front door open and Brad say, "Oh my God, I can smell it."

At that particular moment in time, I literally had Avery bent over in the tub, holding her bare ass under the running water. Brad walked in to the bathroom with a look on his face that I hadn't seen since I was spread eagle in the delivery room and crowning. 

"Jesus, Lauren. What happened? There's shit everywhere!"

Within short order we had the bed stripped and put in the wash on the sanitize cycle. While Avery played in the tub, Brad scrubbed the rugs with none other than pet stain remover. I scurried around with disinfectant wipes picking up the Hershey kisses that were all over the hallway. Nixon stared at all the goings on, totally confused. "Why are you both removing this deliciousness?" he asked. 

By 9:50 am, the house was relatively clean. Avery was thrown into some kind of outfit, and I was somewhat put together, but not that well. Brad managed to fire Avery into her car seat, and I gunned it to my appointment. 

I arrived there at 10:00 exactly. As I'm running waddling into the office, gripping Avery's wrist, I'm met with the LPN at the clinic (who I know because I work at the hospital), "You should know better, a nurse like yourself," she said. 
"What are you talking about?" I asked, panting, and trying to conceal the road burn Avery acquired from being dragged across the parking lot in my savage effort to be on time. 
"You're supposed to be fifteen minutes early in order to register." 
"Don't start with me. I've had a morning."

Post appointment I tossed Avery to the sitter and went home to disinfect my entire house. By the time Brad got home from work, the house smelled a lot less like shit, and a lot more like bleach, burnt nostril hair, fifteen Bath & Body Works candles, and 40th week of pregnancy exhaustion. Let's not forget that. I had a ten pounder living in my uterus at this time as well. Made being on my hands and knees, scrubbing floors and tubs extra special. 

So basically, Happy New Year. And every time you have a shitty day this year, remember the time that I had a shitty day. If nothing else, I bet yours smells better. 

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