We’re always watching renovation and redecoration shows on the telly, and it seems the concept is rubbing off on some of the children. Well, on one of the children.
Last night, while I did the dishes, Tracey put Miss1 in the cot and the other kids to bed before she headed out to visit her grandma.
The kids had been in bed with the light out for about half an hour when Miss3 walked out of the room with her hands cupped over her mouth.
“I’ll get you a bowl,” I said, before she could say a word, “and then back into bed.”
The kids are always trying it on, to the point where I suspect a bowl is more comforting than a teddy bear these days.
But five minutes later I heard her making vomity-type gagging noises, so I thought I’d better go in and see if she really was ill.
I stepped through the door and it was like face-planting into an invisible wall.
With the worst sort of anticipation, I reached out and flicked on the light.
This must be what it’s like on one of those shows like 60 Minute Makeover, where they redecorate behind your back and then stand you at the door for the big reveal.
“Oh, my…,” I stammered. I now understand why they need to be prompted to speak as they try take it all in. Finally, I found my voice. “Oh, shit.”
Of course, if this were 60 Minute Makeover I’d be in a bit of strife for that.
“Bruce!” Claire Sweeney would have to tut-tut me. “You can’t swear on the BBC. Let’s retake from Oh, my.”
“Oh, my… it’s lovely, Claire,” I’d say now I’ve recovered from the initial shock. “I especially like the yellowy-brown palette. Not something I’d ever choose for myself, and I’d never for a moment have thought to put the bathroom in here. Now how do I flush and make it all go away?”
Miss1 was standing in her cot, grinning at me over the rail. While her nappy was still on, she’d clearly managed to get her hands in there and come out with something like builder’s putty to start work on her ‘vision’.
There was, as the saying goes, poo from a-hole to breakfast. The cot rim. The cot slats. The cot sheets. The wall. Her hair. Her clothes. Her fingers. Her legs. Her arms. Even the floor hadn’t been left untouched. Worst of all, little Miss3 must have stepped on a nugget on her way through the room with her bowl, because…well, let’s just say there were some well scrubbed wet patches on the carpet after I’d finished cleaning up.
Tracey arrived home just as I was taking the baby out of the bath, her hair now smelling nicely of apple.
“What the hell is that smell?” she asked as she stepped into the house.
It perhaps gives you an idea of the intensity of the aroma, the sheer ‘so chunky you could carve it’ thickness of the smell, because at this point I’d used baby wipes to clean up the mess and double bagged it.
“Oh, I think you know,” I said to her accusingly. “You put the baby to bed. I don’t supposed she had a dirty nappy when you put her down, did she?”
And, of course, my wife denied it. I might have believed her too, except…
…Tracey put the baby to sleep tonight before she went up to visit her grandma and I walked into the baby’s room half an hour later and little Miss1 had started redecorating again!
When not typing away over here and checking his stats every two minutes Bruce Devereaux hangs out at his ‘BIG FAMILY little income’ Facebook Page.
’raising a family on little more than laughs’
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