Monday, 18 June 2012

Howe do you do... dealing with a poo without a toilet?

Why oh why is it always about wees and poos?

We have just returned from our hols, a brilliant time was had by all.
Although... things have changed somewhat since those pre-baby holidays.
My main preoccupation used to be getting a tan; I now look like a giraffe, my kids having a penchant for randomly spraying me with their factor 50. I am also still finding enough sand daily to fill up an hourglass. And of course the sitting around has been curbed to a greater extent, not least on account of my responsibility for more than just my own toiletage. I'd like to regale a couple of beach-side horror stories for your titillation.

It was after our last trip to beautiful Tenerife that the nightmares started. Baby Girl - just getting to grips with potty training - told me she needed a wee.
Now I know you're not meant to admit it but we all wee in the sea. If you don't you're crazy, especially in Tenerife where walking in any other direction on the hot sand will leave you with first degree burns on the soles of your feet. Fact.

I said to her - to try and extend my own limited lazing around - "just go and wee in the sea". So off she took her naked self. I went back to nonchalantly chatting to my fellow sun worshippers, when one of them cried, "I don't think it's a wee!"

All eyes fixed with bated breath on Baby Girl's bottom, there has been no cinematic moment more gripping in our lifetimes. When finally the chocolate turtle's head appeared, we each reacted as if it was Air Force One emerging from her insides.
Being the one "in charge", it was me that had to respond. And I did, until I got to her and picked her up. Then my mind just went completely blank! I had no stock response of what to do with this situation. My heart was racing like a wildebeest as I looked around for clues. All of my support network were tittering too much to speak any words of guidance. I spotted a toilet sized cabin up the beach and set off at a pace.

I opened the door only to find it was an old fashioned changing room.

Sweat bubbles burst on my temples. I ran around the back of the cubicle but there was just a seafront cafe full of people relaxing, enjoying their elevenses of pistachio ice cream.

At this point can I remind you that I am basically wearing my underwear, carrying a naked child who's poo is - through some form of magic - still attached to her body. I look over to My People, apparently my blind panic, causing them untold amusement. One of them holds out a bucket; finally a sensible solution. I sit Baby Girl down, just in time to hear an unmistakable thud. Phew... I thought.

Crime Scene!


But no, what the hell do you do with a log the size of a Snickers, on a beach with no loo?

The Daddy, in all his wisdom, decided it could just go in the sea. I would like it noted that I did not concur but demurred from arguing due to suffering from PTSD. What was I thinking?

Minutes later when I went for a dip, the whole commotion started again - amongst the slippery seaweed and soapy foam, who should I meet but Turd McCrapstone Esq.

The Daddy got it in the neck. "You were meant to swim out with it! You can't just throw it in and expect it not to wash back again." By now, sultry beach hair and I have been estranged for some time and I am aware that I am behaving like a common, olden days washerwoman who's got a tangle in her mangle.

Finally another sensible suggestion came with the idea of catching the poo (poo catching, you should try it!), putting it in a bag and disposing of it in the doggy bin. They have doggy bins you see, the dogs are catered for!

So that was last time. In comparison, this time actually doesn't seem that bad. I'm not sure how I feel about becoming normalised to this kind of shtick.

I have obviously trained The Boy well, as is clear in his complete confusion of the sentence "just go and wee in the sea". So alien is this concept - he was busy burying himself the last time and obvs learnt nothing from the experience - that he just approached the sea, leaving a good 10 to 15 foot gap between him and the surf, dropped his pants and started peeing among the sun loungers, in particular among three middle-aged English women who had just shared their melon with us (no euphemism intended).
 
Looks like mine but not mine, think I had time for photos?

All might have been overlooked if I hadn't channelled my inner washerwoman and vocalised my horror so vehemently. I did the hot sand, almost naked, wobble-dash all the way to where he was, but of course it was too late. What can you do?


And so the glamour goes on...