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Monday, September 5, 2011

Crappy Feet

This morning, after a particularly awful night with Miss1 and her asthma, I had to take Miss4 to pre-prep while Tracey walked zombie like around the house trying to find her brain.

This was the first time I’ve dropped Miss4 to her pre-prep because I’m normally at work by this point, so I was keen to do everything right and make a good impression. I signed the register, put the lunchbox in the fridge, stored the bag in the rack and took my girls over to the mats to sit down for the morning farewell.

The suspect.
You’d think I’d done this a hundred times and I’m sure the other parents were nodding and chatting quietly amongst themselves at how effortless I made it look.

But then, sitting on the mat with the other mums and dads singing the morning song, I suddenly caught a whiff of something all too familiar. I shoved my nose into Miss1’s nappy, but wasn’t tempted to make gagging noises, so it wasn’t there.  I looked around me. There were several toddlers, but none had a nappy hanging low and kicking around their ankles.  I looked at Miss4 – had she tooted and followed through?

All of a sudden I realised it was me. No I hadn’t soiled my undies. Sometime between home and pre-prep I’d stepped in a pile of dog-porridge.

Sadly, this is far from the first time I’ve done this sort of thing as my feet seem to attract poo.

A few years ago I was rewarded with a three day whirlwind trip to Queenstown in New Zealand because I was so awesomely awesome at my job (and I have a glass statuette to prove it).  Actually what I was really, really good at was writing up how awesomely awesome I was at my job and making sure the right person in head office got a copy.

My creative writing skills were repaid handsomely with an all expense paid holiday with activities galore and food so good I swear I can still taste it.

Exhibit A.
One of the highlights of the weekend was a jet boat and helicopter experience.

Disembarking from the jet boat at a preordained spot up a long shallow and very cold river, the thirty or so people I was with were shepherded through a field with long wet grass to the waiting helicopters. And do you know, of the entire party I was the only one to step into a fresh cow pat just before boarding.

And it wasn’t the offering of a small cow either. I swear I went in ankle deep. I spent the entire flight trying not to stink out the confined little cabin instead of enjoying the view. On the other hand I was too annoyed to be scared about plummeting to the ground and dying painfully at the centre of a huge fireball,so there was an upside.

Unlike this morning.  

Two thirds of the way through the morning song I was thinking I’d gotten away with dragging poo into their fresh, clean classroom. All I had to do when the song finished would be to rub shoulders with the non-poo carting parents as I walked nonchalantly out the door. The grass outside would take care of the evidence.

But when the song was three bars from the end Miss4 shot up on her feet, pointed at my shoe and yelled, “POO!” at the top of her voice.

There may be a question mark over whether or not some parents were nodding and chatting quietly amongst themselves about me when I arrived, but I don’t think there’s any doubt they were doing it when I left.




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2 comments:

Carolyn said...

Just found this blog today and have spent every spare moment reading the whole thing! I have an eight month old boy and find him enough to cope with at times. You have many excellent parenting and money saving tips here that I will definitely take on board. Keep up the good work and thank you.

Kylie Ofiu said...

Don't you love how kids point out exactly what you don't want them to! the joys of parenting. :) lol.


If you get a chance, could you email me at contact at kylie ofiu dot com I have a question I want to ask you but couldn't find where to email you. Thanks so much.

About Me

My photo

Bruce Devereaux is one of the nicest people he knows. When not at work he enjoys reading, writing, hiding from his children and not changing nappies.

 

His career, and if we used the term any more loosely an e might fall out, has included a gardener, a personal lender, a console operator, a stop/go man (not as big a bludge as you might think but great if you’re into sunburn, abuse and varicose veins), a cleaner of banks and pubs and, for a very brief period, a door to door salesman (until the last door he knocked on was answered by a very scary woman with tremendously hairy legs).

 

Bruce Devereaux currently works as a forty-five-year-old award winning customer service officer (glass statuette available upon request) for the Bank of Queensland and as a very casual employee for Corrective Services. He likes to believe he excels at both but then he has always been prone to exaggeration.

 

His favourite colour is green, with a picture of Dame Nellie Melba on one side and General Sir John Monash on the other. His favourite flower is self-raising.

 If you see him around town, call his wife immediately - he's probably snuck out and left her alone with all the kids.


 

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