Code Brown

Last night I uttered the words every parent fears – CODE BROWN!! It was a relatively predictable bath time; Henry and I had just had a giggle at a couple of fart bubbles when I spotted a few strange brown particles appearing in the water. It took me a while to figure out what was going on – had an Anzac biscuit made its way into the bath? When a few definite logs appeared it dawned on me, we were in the middle of a situation.

Thankfully one of my dear friends was over for dinner and could provide emergency back-up while we tackled the crap. We whisked a rather shocked baby out of the poop and into a cuddle and towel while we cleaned the bath of the offending matter. A quick scrub of the bath, and a brief shower for Henry, and things were almost back to normal from our end. For poor Henry though, the trauma of being in a bath full of floaters lasted much longer – it took looking at 61 pages of cat photographs to bring him down off the ledge.

I did feel a world of empathy for his suffering.  I still remember how mortified I was when I crapped my pants at the age of four. My attempt to hide the incident and the predictable discovery of my chocolate secret only added to my embarrassment, and it could well be the cause of a subsequent life of poo shame. I’ve never been a confident pooer, staying at people’s houses where there’s no lock on the toilet door (a sliding door in a high-traffic area is my worst nightmare) will send me into a constipated panic. 

I digress; I’m hoping Henry is young enough to forget all about his first (and hopefully last) code brown, I want him to breeze through life pooing hither and thither without a care in the world, it definitely makes daily life a lot easier. But enough talking shit for now, I’m sure there’ll be more next time, Mel x