Well, that's just shit

My day started well, then turned to shit.

Literally.

I had my legs waxed (hurrah!), got some writing done and some down time in there, as well.

I managed to avoid Lego Club, did the school run and the Guitar Lesson Shuttle.

Grumpy was focussed on doing some overdue bookwork. Chippie got to watch Cars 2 again. He asked, we were busy. Win-win.

I opted for a shower when I returned from my several laps to guitar and back. Chippie followed me in, demanding a shower, then screaming when I said “yes, you can have a shower with me”.

I could smell poo, and muttered about Grumpy and his stinky bum, or an unflushed toilet. The toilet was clear. Chippie … wasn’t.

We haven’t had to deal with poo in pants for months. Months! I have no idea what happened, but it did. I stripped him off, trying to avoid getting poo on anything, and managed to do this relatively well. Does shit on my own hands count has “not getting poo on anything?”

Meanwhile, he was doing his standing-up-kicking-tantrum, which is kinda like a stompy dance, and I was just not wanting poo on anything. I managed to extract his pants from his body, ditch what I could into the loo, prevent him from sitting down and doing his tantrum kicking, or get poo on my arm, leg, hair or any other body part. Nor touch anything with my hands. This makes for interesting manoeuvring.

I toss his undies into the shower, remove his shirt and try to strip off myself, leg extended to prevent Chippie from running out the door, fingers extended to prevent any Faeces On Shirt action. Chippie chills, and moves to wards the shower, and suddenly screams as though he’s been bitten.

It’s loud. And scary. And I freak.

I can’t imagine what might have got him so quickly; wasp, bee, spider … I don’t know.

It is poo. It hasn’t bitten him. It has been flung onto his leg when he decided to “help” by picking his undies up and shaking them. I cannot shove him under the shower, as it is still very cold, and will turn to very hot in a second. When that second will be is anyone’s guess. He commences stompy-kicking again, and I’m in the shower freezing my tits off, burning my hand and trying to adjust the temperature without standing on poo.

It’s not working.

I drag him in, wash him off, and swizzle the water saving shower head about in order to wash bits of rampant poo down the plug hole. I do not want to touch any more than I have already done.

In fact, I don’t want to be doing this it all.

If we’re really honest, I don’t even want to be there at all.

Chippie is dancing around the shower, screaming like his leg is being eaten by wild rabbits with nasty sharp teeth, I’m trying to stay sane and wash away poo and the shower decides it is going to leak.

By “leak” I mean spray a great torrent of water from around the stupid water saving head, over the height of the shower screen and all over the opposite wall.

“FUCK!” I say.

And set about tightening the shower head.

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