The Nappy Chat

When I found out I was pregnant I made a very vocal declaration that I was NEVER going to discuss poo with anyone… not even my husband.  I couldn’t stand the way new parents seemed to think their children’s bowel motions were a topic worthy of continual mention, often in the most inappropriate of circumstances.  To be told about the toxic contents of a nappy while attempting to eat a satay stick is a challenge to say the least!  

Something happens when you become a parent… you somehow forget the usual rules of polite social engagement.  The big net in your brain that normally catches inappropriate thoughts before they have a chance to escape via your mouth, suddenly develops large, gaping holes.  Yesterday I found myself telling a complete stranger that my baby suffers from such bad constipation that we have him on a perpetual diet of prune and banana.... with stunning results!  At what point did I think that was OK... or even vaguely interesting?  As I looked at the woman’s horrified expression, it occurred to me that a little censorship wouldn’t go astray.

I’m rather distressed by my new found need to share downstairs details.  My husband walks through the door in the evening and I’m a veritable stream of minutiae, describing my day one nappy at a time.  Does the poor man really need to know that the Monkey had a nappy full of chocolate sultanas or that today’s consistency was a little like soft serve ice-cream?  No, no and NO!  Zip it.  Save it. Lock it away along with the alarmingly vivid descriptions of projectile vomits that I’m just dying to share with anyone who will listen.

So I made a promise to myself that I have broken on countless occasions… I’m even writing about it, which just goes to show how obsessed I’ve become.  While I would like to think that this is the end, that I shall never again subject yet another friend to the horror story of my brush with Meconium (it was hilarious… I had it in my hair, on my face…  zippity, zip, zip!), I know that I will continue to inflict my crappy stories on those poor, unsuspecting souls who have the misfortune of making my acquaintance.  Perhaps some gaffer tape is in order?

The best I can offer is to try and limit my diatribes to those who have walked a mile in my shoes... because if I've learned anything, it's that another parent sure does love a good nappy chat. 

Photo by me