Something truly disgusting happened to me today. It was so disgusting I didn’t even share it ANYWHERE on social media. As far as I was concerned there was a Facebook blackout.
But then I rang my husband. The (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine calmly listened to my tears and snivelling retching down the phone and then proceeded to laugh so loudly I felt even more sick. As I type this he is threatening to out me on Facebook so I feel I need to share before he gets the opportunity. At least it’ll be my side of the story…
It was around 12.30pm. I was harrassed. I had just been cleaning the bathroom (I predict my domestic goddess status will last around 3 weeks in our new house). Downstairs, while cajoling my three year old into a pair of socks, I noticed a brown mark on the arm of our sofa. You know where this is going don’t you?
The cleaning products were upstairs. The huge array of chocolate in the house led me to (obviously) suspect that the mark was the remnants of Frog’s chocolate coin greedily consumed earlier that day.
I licked my finger and rubbed at it, confident enough in my motherly domestic goddess hunch that it was sticky Cadburys I was rubbing at. It didn’t come off as easily as expected.
I licked my finger again, noting that the chocolate was probably a few days old because it didn’t taste “fresh”. I rubbed again. It faded a little, but was proving stubborn.
The third lick was accompanied with a stifled giggle from my three year old. “Mummy, why you licking my poo?”
“Don’t be silly darling. It’s not poo. It’s chocolate. Why on earth would there be poo on the sofa?” I laughed nervously. Leaning forward I took a big sniff.
It wasn’t chocolate.
“I had poo on my bum when I did sit on the sofa this morning Mummy”.
“You didn’t wipe my bum properly Mummy. YOU ATE POO!!”
The little sod wasn’t wrong. Not only had I licked it. I had licked it, rubbed it, sniffed it and then licked it some more.
Vomiting followed. It seems my body had a violent reaction to the idea of consuming human faeces. It didn’t sit well on the stomach.
I vowed there and then to only tell two people about my misfortune. My sister laughed and my husband has been singing Scat Man at me all evening. In a fit of melodrama I just rang my mother.
“Mum, something awful happened today and I need your support!”
“What darling? Oh, are you talking about Yum Yum Gate? Remind me not to bring chocolate round next time I come to visit.”
So I sent a text to my friend, confident I would get the sympathy I deserved from him. It was not forthcoming:
My name is Molly and today, I ate poo. There, I said it. Get the poo jokes out of the way while you can. I can hide it no longer.
And while you’re at it, please tell me there are more disgusting things to befall you since parenthood? I need someone to make me feel better.