Purely out of proud new parent habit – completely unnecessarily – I held both his little feet with one hand and pushed his froggy legs back against his tummy in order to check his bottom. This particular part of his anatomy began to pulse once, then twice, in a fashion which I did not yet recognise as alarming.
Then it began.
Projectile poop was not a phrase I had ever encountered in parenting books, blogs or conversation, yet it was clearly the only description fit for purpose at that moment.
As I stepped nimbly aside a thick, smooth, orange liquid the consistency of an excellent pumpkin soup entrée blasted from that tabletop across the beige carpet toward the doorway. Spray splattered laterally onto chairs, clothes and wine rack. It lasted two or three interminable seconds.
I don’t know if we laughed or cried – certainly both have been part of the retelling over the years – yet I suspect at that point, the urgency of the situation overtook us. Guests were on their way. Mercifully late, yet growing inexorably closer by the minute, these friends were not so intimate as to be glad to help scrub poo from the floor upon arrival. If you happen to find friends who will, treasure them.
So we kicked into gear. First things first, the measuring tape. This would be a crucial detail in the accurate recounting of family legend. Measured, checked and confirmed: two metres was the most distant splash.
The carpet cleaner had thankfully gifted a bottle of his own formula for spot-cleaning, which my husband employed to good effect. I wiped table and child, finding yet another clean onesie and nappy. There was no time to change our clothes. My nifty side-step had saved me from most of the damage except a few blobs on the edge of my unbuttoned overshirt which I dealt with swiftly.
Then the doorbell rang.
There were greetings and smiles, a little too wide and bemused on our part. There were hugs with just a bit of distance between in case any spots had been missed. There was awkward small talk after ushering them quickly through the relevant doorway, where they paused by the wine rack beside our large table, commenting on the convenience of the changing mat placed just there. I willed them not to look down.
Those pumpkin soup stains would not fade for years.
Anna Rose is a follower of Jesus and mother of three children. She shares a love of learning with her kids and is still growing each day.
