A Parent & a Writer

Sometimes we as authors are accused of being somewhat dramatic. I would prefer to say that we have a creative mind that simply views the world a little more imaginatively. I will let you read the following and be the judge however. By way of a warning this tale may not be suitable for those that are faint of heart.

If you are an author or a writer you will know that in every moment of our lives there are situations and events that spark our imagination and sometimes simple mundane material can set us off. This next excerpt is very much in that vein.

For those of you who have children you will also understand that the magic little moments between you and your child provide some great anecdotes to write about. Again this next little half-horror story fits into that category.

Let me paint you a picture; it was a tiresome spring day. Me and my daughter spent the morning and much of the afternoon out shopping, walking and playing. After a spot of lunch my two year old started yawning and rubbing her eyes. ‘Success’ I thought as my daughter laid out on the sofa and pulled her blanket over. This is the stuff of dreams for any parent, the promise of an hours quiet time to maybe enjoy a hot cup of tea and some light reading.

Dutifully I carried her upstairs to her room. She uttered the words ‘Mummy a big poo’ as we ascended the stairs, but nothing could rip me away from my glee at the prospect of an hour with my feet up. I grabbed a nappy and changed her before singing baa baa black sheep and twinkle twinkle little star. She waved at me half asleep as I left the room. I wonder if she knew then in that moment what she was going to do. No I mustn’t think like that, don’t turn a sweet moment into something dark and sordid.

She was dozing as I made my way down the stairs being careful to avoid the danger steps that creak underfoot. I turned on her baby monitor to hear her mumbling sweetly along to the tune of a nursery rhyme. ‘Awe’ I though as I reached the living room falsely believing that I had the sweetest child on the planet.

I cleaned around the house and put the kettle on. Half an hour went by and I heard a noise from upstairs, so I checked on the monitor and she was laid in bed fidgeting. Hmmm it’s nothing I thought, but I picked the monitor up again as curiosity had gotten the better of me. I panned the camera around the room and saw an odd, unidentified shape next to her bedroom door that was wide open.

I stared intently at the shape and after a minute I realised it was her clothes all bundled up in a pile on the floor. I went upstairs thinking ‘god I hope she’s still got a nappy on’.

Now I had already gotten rid of a poopy nappy 10 seconds before I put her to bed so did not expect the scene I was greeted by.

Before I had even reached the top of the stairs I could see poop smeared fingerprints on each individual spindle of the baby gate at her door. I peered my head around the doorframe reluctantly in horror. It looked like a poop grenade had exploded. All over the draws, the bedframe, the blankets, her pillow and then her: she sat and beamed at me an angelic smile as my eyes adjusted trying to make out where the poop ended and the child began. In her hair, on her face, her hands and body – just covered. Totally covered.

Remaining as composed as I could muster, I urged myself forward in the face of utter adversity. The scene was a blur as I quickly and concisely wrapped linen and bedding together careful to avoid any hazardous material. My arms and hands moved ferociously withdrawing from the room any and every contaminated object.

I handled the child cautiously like a delicate radioactive vile of poison that could ooze at any minute. The remaining events haze in my mind as I struggle to recall exact details, but there was soap and a shower; that much I do recall.

I knew this day was coming, the other parents had all warned me, but foolishly I never thought it would happen to me. I can still smell the foul stench like it’s scorched into my nostrils and etched into my brain. I had always been told of the terrible 2’s, but nothing could have prepared me for this terrible 2.

Advertisements