the day i skipped lunch

You know how mothers are always claiming that motherhood is the most beautiful experience a woman will ever be given? Well, brace your stomachs, because I’m here to tell you a tale about them being complete and utter liars.

It was a brightly lit day. The sun was glaring into the vacant potential of it being a great day. The weather was a perfect crisp of whispered calm, and my heart was gathering the details that would form a soothing, ideal normalcy.

Taking advantage of the beautiful weather, I decided to tackle the housechores early. I handwashed miniature garments of my exclusively H&M-dressed newborn, and hung them out to dry. I mopped the floors, and cleaned the toilets, and organized the scatter of toys that colored the rooms. I changed the toddler, and hugged the newborn, and turned the telly on for them. With a smile at them both and a wave of hi-5, I walked to the kitchen to prepare for the toddler a meal of extreme epicness. And through it all, I whistled a tune of contented continuity in declaration of this great day ahead of me.

As I walked towards the dining table, a glorious bento set all ready to be served, I noticed a misplaced quietness floating suspiciously around the space. This quietness was unlike any other. In fact, “floating” would be a miscalculated description. “Looming” would be the apt connection of what would soon lead from a great day, to the worst day.

I looked around the room, a feeling of dread hovering over me like a shifty seasoned cloud, and found the toddler standing in a corner, studying her hands with a severity that was unfamiliar to me. “Sweetie,” I called out, “what are you doing there?” She glanced at me a quick response, and went back to inspecting her hands.

“Sweetie,” I repeated, as I walked towards her, “what are you doing there?”

She licked her fingers, and smiled at me.

A brown-streaked smile.

It was then that I noticed smudges of brown on her hands, on her clothes, all over her face. “Sweetie…?” I asked again, this time knowing that it would be best not knowing, “…what are you doing?”

“Gabba?” was her reply, unsure of an immediate answer.

“What is that, baby?”

“Gabba!” she announced, this time with much understanding and an enthusiastically stained brown hand thrust up towards me.

“Where did you get chocolate from, sweetheart?” I asked, as I moved closer to her with careful caution and distant scrutiny. Before I could dodge what was about to happen, she jumped ahead of my instincts and smeared my face with that same brown hand. And it was then that I smelt it; poop.

My daughter was eating her own poop.

She had stuck her hands into the biggest poop explosion that has ever invaded a diaper from a previous night of sweets and diluted Starbucks coffee, and was eating the poop from those tiny, precarious hands.

You know how mothers are always bragging about their kids’ healthy poops and smooth bowel movements? Well, this wasn’t one of those times. She had diarrhoed all over herself, and, I repeat, was eating her own poop.

Within the span of five short seconds, I went from standing in shock, to recoiling in horror, to grabbing the toddler and running into the nearest bathroom. Under ordinary circumstances, I would’ve even taken an extra few seconds to tweet my newfound agility in moving like a supermom. Hell, I would’ve Instagrammed a picture of the entire situation.

However, as mentioned, this wasn’t one of those times.

As I washed the foul stench of disgust from our hands, I sobbed in stuttered laughter, working through the disbelief of what had just happened. No amount of What To Expect volumes could’ve prepared me with a suitable reaction. So I laughed. And I cried. And I scrubbed us furiously dry.

And through it all, she “gabba-ed” a tune of immense pleasure in declaration of this great day ahead of her.

You know how mothers are always planning the greatest, most touching wedding speeches created by those most memorable moments during childhood, in honor of their children's big day?

Well, this is mine.

You’re welcome, toddler.