We have all been there.
You crack open the door to the toddlers room and the smell hits you in the face. Mouldy cheese and rotting veg springs to mind and you wonder what on earth you fed that child to create such an inhuman smell.
Then you remember.
You remember with a uncomfortable jolt using the last wipe to whip round the loo seat after your six year old son missed his target again that morning.
Reality hits home.
You have a code 1 situation, the worlds worse smelling nappy and no wipes to help you.
You are going in alone, without backup.
Lifting the toddler and waking her from slumber you pin her to the wall, spreading her arms up high, fingers splayed ‘twinkle, twinkle’ style. Undoing the vest you took in the poppers in her neckline. The smell worsens and you pray for firm.
Its not firm, repeat it is not firm, its a wet one, and it is excessive.
With a hard covering around the buttocks and a sprinkling edging down the legs and up the spine you stare at the toilet seat wishing it to be covered in pee and for the last wipe to be in your hand.
The toddler giggles; this does not help.
Grabbing the loo roll you head in.
Instantly it breaks casting tiny white tissues on the floor, your hand goes straight through the paper, straight through onto bare skin, gagging you run to the sink rinsing furiously then you remember the toddler, the nappy and…
“Noooooo” you cry as the toddler starts to dance ganglam style around the bathroom spraying crap everywhere and leaving butt marks up and down the wall.
Pinning her back to the wall you wet the tissue, you know it to be a wrong move but try anyway. Moments later you are left with a stained wet hand and a hole where the tissue once was. The toddlers backside is still explosive.
Furious washing commences once more, this time using your elbow to turn the tap whilst one hand holds the child in place. Once bitten twice shy and all that.
The clock is ticking, you should have left for the school run by now, your eyes are watering from the smell and a solution seems impossible.
Desperate you reach for more loo paper and the last sheet comes away in your grip leaving a bare cardboard roll mocking your efforts.
For the love of god does no one shop in this house.
Grabbing the toddler and holding her at arms length you leg it to the kitchen, ignore the laws of basic hygiene, and you throw the baby softly onto the work surface which still holds the remnant of the tuna mayonanniase sandwich you ate for lunch; lurching for the nearest tea towel, you drench it in water and start to scrub the babies arse.
Finally the colour starts to fade, the smell to dissapate and a bright pink bottom reappears.
You give up hope on the tea towel and throw it in the outside bin and drive at break neck speed to pick up the kids from school.
You are not late – miracles do happen.
When you return home the three children walk in sniffing the air with a look of pinched horror, twin girl cries ‘Jeez it smells like Daddy’s farts in here.’ Twin boy nods in agreement holding his nose between finger and thumb walking through the hallway.
“Mum” screams the boy “mum come quick, someone has pooed all over the bathroom walls. It is stuck fast.”
We have all been there, right?