Poop Poop

Hot summer, this one. Sweden has been basking in temperatures of thirty plus, if by basking you mean 'having massive forest fires'. We had sweaty nappy rashes instead.

The best cure for a big red bottom is to let the owner run about airing it. This meant a certain amount of involuntary potty training. F has an idea about potties. She knows you sit on one. Sometimes she tries to scootch it along as if it has wheels, sometimes she pulls it apart to investigate the subtle inner workings. Sometimes she takes Bunbun (now the settled name for her beloved plushy bunny), shoves her face first into the bowl and then sits on top. So we have a way to go.

Much of this way seems paved with poop. Parenthood generally seems to be.

I haven't written much about poop lately. Sadly, this isn't because my life is no longer saturated in it. It's just since F started doing adult-flavour ones, it's harder to sit and write about them with the same level of insouciant bonhomie I like to promolgate in this blog. Wit fails me, all I can think of it fatuous comparisons to chemical spills.

'Gong farmer' came low on my teenage list of dream jobs. Low it remains.

I have scraped handfuls of nutty slack off my parents' conservatory floor.  Even with a nappy on, muddy algal sludge still managed to ooze round a loose corner to be smeared over my trouser legs during what I thought was an unusually affectionate hug. There was something that looked like a chocolate-coated pear under our balcony table. It wasn't.

The nappy rash is much better. I suppose that means having to hunt for landmines round our flat every so often was worth it. I don't know what produces more heartsink, the conversation that goes

J - Do you need a nappy change?
F - (reeking) Nuh.

or this one

F - (proudly pointing to her tummy and running up to me) Poop poop poop poop poop!

So far, she only runs to me with this diagnostic. Both of us are proud that we've at least taught our daughter this much on potty matters. Some of us may be prouder than others.