SOME DAYS ARE JUST POO

AS A HAP­LESS GRAND­PAR­ENT, NO ONE COULD EVER SAY THAT I HAVE NAPPY-CHANG­ING DOWN TO A FINE ART

Life & Style Weekend - - TUGBOAT TALES - WORDS: ASH­LEY ROBIN­SON

Last week’s col­umn was a re­run of a 2010 col­umn which started with a story about nap­pies, poo and Glen 20.

The rea­son I used it was that I was at the life­sav­ing ti­tles on the Gold Coast and never had time to write a col­umn.

So I thought I would get away with an older one that ba­si­cally ex­plained that I was stupid in the ’80s through to 2010 and noth­ing much had changed.

Well, last Mon­day, I had to get up at 4am to be back on the Sun­shine Coast to babysit my grand­kids while old mate went out.

So I got home, half-un­packed and took the dog for a walk (a dog, I might add, that hadn’t seen me for nine days but just gave me a cold stare when he laid eyes on me and kept eating his break­fast).

I tried to get his trust back by go­ing for a short walk, which co­in­cided with the kids ar­riv­ing.

On re­turn­ing with the dog, I took the two kids to the beach for a walk so old mate could get ready.

But I made one fa­tal er­ror: I didn’t get the full brief­ing about food, nap time, bot­tle and, of course, nappy-chang­ing.

On re­turn from the beach, the kids wanted a bun and all I wanted was peace af­ter nine days of walk­ing up and down the beach in the blaz­ing sun in soft sand.

So bun it was, and then I just sat down af­ter I had had it to watch them play.

Then the five-year-old boy says with a smile on his face: “I think she has done a poo.” He knows I am a rookie and loves it.

She then yells out “poo poo”, laugh­ing, and runs to the change bed and sticks her legs up in the air.

She was right.

So I am try­ing to re­mem­ber what to do and where ev­ery­thing is.

Off comes the nappy and I go to work gag­ging but get­ting it done.

I get the new nappy on and get her dressed and she is still go­ing “poo poo” and point­ing at the end of the bed.

There was half the con­tents of the nappy that must have fallen out when I took it off her.

So an­other nappy dis­posal bag ... and did I men­tion the smell? It was hor­ren­dous.

I must have washed my hands 10 times but I thought I was mentally scarred as I could still smell it.

Any­way, I fi­nally sat down while they played and I could still smell it.

Then the lit­tle one walks over and is look­ing at me go­ing “poo poo” and that is ex­actly how I felt.

But she then walked up to me and touched my knee and went “Pa, Pa. Poo”.

It was on my knee and, in­ci­den­tally, now on her hand and shirt. It turned out that when I was chang­ing her nappy, a smelly mis­sile flew out.

I must have stuck my knee in it while I was gag­ging ... I mean, con­cen­trat­ing on chang­ing her, which ex­plained why the smell was fol­low­ing me around the house.

At least, I guess, I have been con­sis­tent over the past four decades.

Side note: To­day will be the first time old mate knows what went on when she reads this. Gee, I am glad the footy is on to­day.

“I MUST HAVE STUCK MY KNEE IN IT WHILE I WAS GAG­GING ... I MEAN, CON­CEN­TRAT­ING ON CHANG­ING HER, WHICH EX­PLAINED WHY THE SMELL WAS FOL­LOW­ING ME AROUND THE HOUSE.

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