"Run for your lives! There's a shit cloud coming!"
Mila, if you’re reading this from the future, I apologise. Perhaps someone has dredged this up on your wedding day and decided to embarrass you. Perhaps that someone is me! To be fair it does sound like something I would do, and in that case I apologise again, but this week you’ve had diarrhoea. A lot of diarrhoea. Basically our week has been a huge tsunami of baby shit from start to finish and it all came out of your little baby butt.
It started just before we went away for a few days. I’m not at home, but I get a WhatsApp message rom Zsuzsa…
“She just had a Niagara Falls of poo!”
I put two and two together and decide that Zsuzsa’s talking about Mila, not her mother who she’d been speaking to earlier.
We’d planned to go away for a few days to visit the in-laws, and despite our worry that this is just the beginning of a vicious assault on our senses, we decide to stick to our plans.
A few shit filled days later and we return home. It hits us instantly. A wall of stench.
“What the hell is that smell!?” asks Zsuzsa.
“Smells like someones shat in our radiators!” I gasp.
“There must be a rogue shitty nappy somewhere in the flat.” Zsuzsa deduces.
And so we set to work. We search every nook and cranny of the flat. I’m surprised as I previously didn’t realise how many nooks that our flat had. I've often suspected that our flat had more than its fair share of crannies, but not so many nooks. We search for about half an hour, find nothing, and eventually give up. We are beginning to accept that we will always live in a bog of eternal stench, but we’re hoping that eventually, we will become accustomed to the smell. Dinner parties might be a hard sell though.
The next day, I escape from our cloud of shit particles and head to the office. A few hours later and I get another WhatsApp message from Zsuzsa…
“Her little bum is red and sore and her tummy is still upset. I’m using a camomile tea infused Muslim to wipe her butt.”
I’m guessing the Muslim is probably equally as upset as Mila’s tummy is, perhaps even more so. Zsuzsa will later accuse autocorrect, saying that she meant muslin (cloth), but I have my doubts. I’m blaming Donald Trump.
It’s now Friday. We eventually found the rogue nappy (hiding in the bathroom bin). Mila is supposed to have a swimming lesson and to be fair her shit festival appears to be coming to an end, but just to be safe we decide to give swimming a miss. Instead, like some kind of wild, rock n’ roll rebel, I’ve decided to pop Mila into her buggy and visit the local shopping centre to buy a pepper grinder.
Feeling like Iggy Pop I'm now in a kitchen utensil shop looking for pepper grinders, but something catches my eye. It’s a massive glass piggy bank. I instantly decide that this is what is missing from my life. This is the item to complete our joyous existence. I pick the piggy bank up, pop it under my arm and head towards the counter. Being the conscientious Dad that I am, I look in the buggy to check on our little shitty cub. A glassy eyed, motionless baby face stares back at me. I look closer. Still no movement. My heart begins to pound. I wave my free hand back and forth, millimetres from her face. Nothing.
“Oh my God! Mila!”
I’m panicking. With my free hand I slap her chubby little baby cheeks a few times. Mila turns and looks at me, a look of shock on her face. She had for some reason unbeknownst to me, decided to fall asleep with her eyes wide open. I was gentle with my slapping, but her expression tells me that this was not how she wanted to be roused from her slumber.
So, if you happened to be in a kitchen utensil shop in Budapest on Friday morning and saw a man, holding a massive piggy bank with one hand, whilst frantically slapping a baby with his other, that was me.
And Mila, I apologise again, this time for waking you up by slapping your little baby face, but now it’s time for you to apologise. You need to apologise for sending me in to a blind panic by sleeping with your goddamn eyes open in a kitchen utensil shop in Budapest on January 27th, 2017! Who the hell does that!?
Happy wedding day by the way. Enjoy the rest of 2046.