So, there we were, soaking up the rays, and getting sand in places where sand ain’t supposed to be. After a leisurely breakfast, and a dip in the pool, we were knackered (why is doing nothing so tiring?). So we strolled back to the villa to give the little one (and the two big ones) a nap.
Lucia was staying in a cot in our bedroom, so we drew the curtains, stripped her down to her nappy so she wouldn’t be too hot, and plonked her down. We chatted in the living room for 20 minutes, to give her a chance to nod off before we snuck in too. When all went quiet, I cracked open the door, and peeked inside… to reveal a sight that still chills me to this day.
Lucia was sitting up in her cot. Her nappy had been pulled open, and the bountiful contents scooped out in big handfuls, and smeared all over her chest. She was literally wearing a poo suit. She looked up at me, held up her crap-coated hands, and cried: ‘Oh Noooooooooooooooooooo!!’ ‘Run a bath,’ I shouted to Dan. ‘Why?’ he asked, coming to the door. His face froze, then fell. ‘Right away,’ he mumbled, sprinting to the bathroom. I scoured Lucia’s body for a square inch of flesh that wasn’t caked in excrement. There wasn’t one. So I took a deep breath, said a little prayer, and grabbed her.
The bath was still filling up, so I sat her on the floor of the shower and angled the jets towards her. But the droplets just ran straight off her poo suit, which seemed to be made of some kind of water-resistant superhuman shit, the likes of which I’d never seen before (and hope to never see again). I had to actually dig my hands into it, and peel it off her skin in thick clay-like strips. It was one of those parental horror stories you assume are urban myths – until they actually happen to you.
Finally, my little girl emerged from her chrysalis of crap, like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. I transferred her to the bath, and gave her a final scrub down, while Dan stripped the cot. Finally, clean and fresh smelling again, Lucia went down for her nap, while Dan and I sat in the lounge, twitching from PTSD (Post Traumatic Shit Disorder). Who says motherhood isn’t glamorous??