S*** the Bed
I know it’s a little bit crass and, well, downright disgusting, but for a few years one of my go-to sayings to mutter to myself when things go south is: “S*** the bed.”
Very quietly, if the little one - or anyone, really - is around. It’s one of those sayings that’s stuck with me. As a parent especially, there are times when even a low-volume “F***”, a simple “S***” (or similar), just doesn’t satisfy the need to vent your frustration at the roller coaster that is life.
You’ll be glad to know I, myself, have never actually s*** the bed - and I was sloshed on cheap cider for four years as a student, so I’ve done pretty well to preserve my many beds (and dignity).
It’s not until you have to deal with actual s*** in an actual bed, though, that you realise why, for years, you’ve used the phrase to describe unfavourable situations.
One evening back in November, my wife went to get her nails done at her friend’s house. I’m running a bath for Joshua.
The bathroom is right next to his bedroom, and I’ve trained myself to know the sound of the hot running tap hitting what is a perfectly-filled level. I listen, and we’re at the point where the cold tap needs to go on.
I leave him on his bed reading a book, completely starkers (Mistake #1), for all of 15 seconds. Probably less. Almost certainly less.
In that time - that short, short space of time - the little mite has taken a dump right on top of his duvet and is currently playing with it like it’s Plasticine.
I mean, nothing - NOTHING - can prepare you for a s*** in (or on) the bed. It’s also important to note that I’m still really not great with poo, anyway. I’m meant to be this balshy Scouse bloke, but I can't hack poo. Yet, here I am, facing my fear of faeces - which has been smeared into fresh linen.
So, I've got a big baby s*** smeared into the bed and into my child’s hands/fingers/stomach. My wife’s out getting pampered, and I’m here dealing with our toddler’s dirty protest.
Epiphany by Excrement
I’m gagging because it stinks so bad. My kid’s trying to hug me with poo-laden hands. He thinks it’s hilarious, which it is looking back retrospectively (I'm laughing writing this).
But in that moment, after a long and hard day at work, I just really don’t need a poo-stained bed and child. Do you know what I mean? But I guess it’s one of them parent curve balls that make life a little more interesting (and smelly).
That evening, ladies and gentlemen, is when I really learnt the meaning of 'S*** the bed'.
I cleaned the little one first as best I could and tended to the turd-ridden duvet cover, carefully taking it off and throwing it straight in the bin outside.
I combed the bed and surrounding area for any further signs of toddler poop. I’d done a decent job. Off to the bath we went to give Joshua a much-needed clean.
I guess the moral of the story is that life is, often literally, full of s*** the bed moments, isn't it?