One evening last week, I decide I need to hose down the front driveway as we had had a load of white rocks delivered a few days before and they had left a layer of white dust on the charcoal pavers. So I set 19 month old Rascal up in her sandpit nearby and began the rhythmic hosing, quite therapeutic really. I knew, though, that it was only a matter of time until Rascal had to investigate.
And this happened about 5 mins in. Out of the sandpit she pops and wanders over to the hose. She starts casually putting her hand in the water and I humour her as it is a hot day and I don’t care if she gets wet. I think vaguely that I should have changed her out of her white shirt but can’t be bothered stopping the procedure now to do it. I continue hosing, gradually moving further and further down the driveway. She has started stomping in the puddle created by the hose now and is enjoying herself immensely with little squeals of delight echoing around our quiet street. I accidentally spray her a few times and she is equally delighted by this. The water is getting muddier and dirtier as I get closer to the end of the driveway and once I reach the footpath, Rascal decides that she has had enough of this petty hand touching and stomping and goes right in.
She launches forwards on the footpath straight onto her tummy (and her white shirt) into the muddy water. She instantly starts ‘swimming’ like she does in the bath and lays her face in it, drinking the gritty water happily. I sigh helplessly as it’s too late to do anything for the shirt and she is having so much fun. I decide to just finish the hosing and then we can all go inside. So I finish the hosing and turn it off. Rascal is still ‘swimming’ and leaps up when the hose goes off. She looks absolutely hilarious covered in mud, so I decide I want a picture. I dash ahead of her into the house to get the camera and close the door between the garage and the house to prevent her muddy body from entering.
This is where the disaster bit starts.
For some reason, though I have never done this before, Rascal thinks that, because I closed the door on her, I am banishing her permanently from the house. She starts to wail. I grab the camera and open the door, saying “it’s fine darling, mummy just wants a picture.” This declaration only results in louder wailing and she is now trying to force herself into the house, her tears mixing with the mud on her face. I soon realise that my dreams of getting a picture are over and put the camera down. I’m about to let her in when I realise I don’t have a towel. She is reaching desperation point at this stage and I’m not sure if she is starting to feel a bit cold or what but she REALLY wants to get inside! I let her in and take off her shoes and say, “please wait, mummy needs a towel” very firmly. Luckily the linen press is not far away and I get one within seconds but she has already made it to the hallway, crying loudly by the time I get to her with the towel. As soon as I pick her up in the towel she starts to calm down. She must have been cold. I sigh with relief. The worst is over.
And this happened about 5 mins in. Out of the sandpit she pops and wanders over to the hose. She starts casually putting her hand in the water and I humour her as it is a hot day and I don’t care if she gets wet. I think vaguely that I should have changed her out of her white shirt but can’t be bothered stopping the procedure now to do it. I continue hosing, gradually moving further and further down the driveway. She has started stomping in the puddle created by the hose now and is enjoying herself immensely with little squeals of delight echoing around our quiet street. I accidentally spray her a few times and she is equally delighted by this. The water is getting muddier and dirtier as I get closer to the end of the driveway and once I reach the footpath, Rascal decides that she has had enough of this petty hand touching and stomping and goes right in.
She launches forwards on the footpath straight onto her tummy (and her white shirt) into the muddy water. She instantly starts ‘swimming’ like she does in the bath and lays her face in it, drinking the gritty water happily. I sigh helplessly as it’s too late to do anything for the shirt and she is having so much fun. I decide to just finish the hosing and then we can all go inside. So I finish the hosing and turn it off. Rascal is still ‘swimming’ and leaps up when the hose goes off. She looks absolutely hilarious covered in mud, so I decide I want a picture. I dash ahead of her into the house to get the camera and close the door between the garage and the house to prevent her muddy body from entering.
This is where the disaster bit starts.
For some reason, though I have never done this before, Rascal thinks that, because I closed the door on her, I am banishing her permanently from the house. She starts to wail. I grab the camera and open the door, saying “it’s fine darling, mummy just wants a picture.” This declaration only results in louder wailing and she is now trying to force herself into the house, her tears mixing with the mud on her face. I soon realise that my dreams of getting a picture are over and put the camera down. I’m about to let her in when I realise I don’t have a towel. She is reaching desperation point at this stage and I’m not sure if she is starting to feel a bit cold or what but she REALLY wants to get inside! I let her in and take off her shoes and say, “please wait, mummy needs a towel” very firmly. Luckily the linen press is not far away and I get one within seconds but she has already made it to the hallway, crying loudly by the time I get to her with the towel. As soon as I pick her up in the towel she starts to calm down. She must have been cold. I sigh with relief. The worst is over.
Or is it.
We arrive at the bathroom and I decide that I will have to chuck her in the shower because she is completely covered in mud and we have to go out after this to pick up Daddy from the airport. This is another very important part of the story because if I had had another set of hands available, none of the disaster bit would have happened. Anyway back to the disaster. I take off her wet clothes and start the shower. I’m just about to put her in and take off her nappy to realise she has a poo in it. Ughhhh! I don’t have any wipes. This isn’t good. I make a snap decision to chuck her in the shower and wash the excess poo off her bottom in there. I must admit I didn’t bother to check how much poo was on her bottom. But anyway. I put her in.
The bottom of the shower instantly fills with poo, or so it seems. Ahhhhhh! Yuck! I say, “stay standing, I’m going to get wipes.” This would have been a confusing instruction for her as we spend most of our shower time trying to get her to sit down but anyway, I hoped it would be a simple thing. I dash into her bedroom, which is less than 4 metres away and grab the wipes. As my hand latches onto the packet I hear a ‘slip... crash.... waaaaaaaaa!’ from the bathroom. She’s fallen over. I dash back as fast as I left (bearing in mind I’m 24 weeks pregnant and starting to resemble a whale). Sure enough she has slipped over. And now she is laying on her back.... in her own poo pool. I let out another scream of horror, then grab her off the bottom of the shower and start madly wiping what is left off her bottom (which isn’t much by now) and her back. I then shoo all the remaining poo down the drain.
Sighing loudly, I grab a few bath toys and give them to her. I then stand there trying to catch my breath. She sighs also (loves to copy when I sigh) and sits down on the bottom of the shower. She then grabs the toys, closes the door to the shower and waves goodbye to me. It’s like as if she’s saying ‘ok you’ve done enough. Now just leave me to my fun.’
All of that happened in the space of 5 mins. And I am left wondering how a fun jaunt in the hose water outside became a desperate, slippery, poo-covered disaster!
Libby :)
We arrive at the bathroom and I decide that I will have to chuck her in the shower because she is completely covered in mud and we have to go out after this to pick up Daddy from the airport. This is another very important part of the story because if I had had another set of hands available, none of the disaster bit would have happened. Anyway back to the disaster. I take off her wet clothes and start the shower. I’m just about to put her in and take off her nappy to realise she has a poo in it. Ughhhh! I don’t have any wipes. This isn’t good. I make a snap decision to chuck her in the shower and wash the excess poo off her bottom in there. I must admit I didn’t bother to check how much poo was on her bottom. But anyway. I put her in.
The bottom of the shower instantly fills with poo, or so it seems. Ahhhhhh! Yuck! I say, “stay standing, I’m going to get wipes.” This would have been a confusing instruction for her as we spend most of our shower time trying to get her to sit down but anyway, I hoped it would be a simple thing. I dash into her bedroom, which is less than 4 metres away and grab the wipes. As my hand latches onto the packet I hear a ‘slip... crash.... waaaaaaaaa!’ from the bathroom. She’s fallen over. I dash back as fast as I left (bearing in mind I’m 24 weeks pregnant and starting to resemble a whale). Sure enough she has slipped over. And now she is laying on her back.... in her own poo pool. I let out another scream of horror, then grab her off the bottom of the shower and start madly wiping what is left off her bottom (which isn’t much by now) and her back. I then shoo all the remaining poo down the drain.
Sighing loudly, I grab a few bath toys and give them to her. I then stand there trying to catch my breath. She sighs also (loves to copy when I sigh) and sits down on the bottom of the shower. She then grabs the toys, closes the door to the shower and waves goodbye to me. It’s like as if she’s saying ‘ok you’ve done enough. Now just leave me to my fun.’
All of that happened in the space of 5 mins. And I am left wondering how a fun jaunt in the hose water outside became a desperate, slippery, poo-covered disaster!
Libby :)
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