Forget Southern trains drama… Poo-gate on South West Trains!
Something gross just happened. And I need to get it off my chest. Well actually, my boot.
I know motherhood can be pretty disgusting, but you know when a single incident takes things way, way, waaaay over the line. So far past the line, in fact, the line is a dot to you. (credit: Joey from Friends).
We are at the train station coming home from lovely day out. Our train is 4 minutes away.
M says, “Mummy, I need a poo.” You know where this is going already don’t you?
Mr MM and I both look at each other in alarm. There are no toilets on this platform. It’s a lot of stairs up, across and down to go and pay 30p (30P!) to use one. And if we miss this train, the next one is in 20 minutes. AND it’s bedtime, as Little P is making sure we know by grizzling at us from the buggy.
“The train will be here really soon, bud. We’ll take you straight to the toilet there ok?”
“OK.” Small distraction talk involving train tracks, a sign with a car on it, and what we’ve done today.
“Are you holding on?” I dare to ask as he goes a bit quiet.
“Yes.” Whimper. “But Mummy. The poo is COMING OUT!”
He bursts into tears… He’s been potty trained since he was two, and I think I’ve only dealt with a small handful of number two accidents in the last 18 months, most of which were early days – so I’m definitely not well equipped when it comes to anything spare…
“Mummy it’s all come out now! All of it!”
“It’s OK, don’t worry, M, don’t worry,” we lie through our gritted teeth wondering what on earth we’re going to do next. The train pulls in as he’s still crying and it’s REALLY busy. He has trouble getting onto the train (obviously) and everyone knows what’s happened. Mr MM takes the buggy and I take the wipes and it’s GO GO GO.
I shepherd him through the busy carriage to the toilet, two carriages away, which of course is occupied. He’s pulled himself together but the stench is terrible and I’m in fear of what I’m about to discover and what I’m going to do about it when we get in there…
I turn to lock the door and he’s pulled his trousers straight down, ruining my chances of damage limitation. Where do you even start? The next 5 minutes passed in a blur and involved poo on my boot (I know!), the seat, his hands, his top (?) and just about everywhere else in the loo. A LOT of baby wipes to rescue the trousers, and pants straight in the teeny tiny flappy bin, which is impossibly small for what I needed it for.
Possibly the most annoying part was when – mid-clean-up – he just started chatting as if nothing horrendous had ever happened: “ooh Mummy look at the hand-drier / can I press the unlock button? / what station are we at now?” – while I was wondering which sock to peel off next without further wee-stained floor contamination and how not to wipe more poo on anything, including myself. I think I actually yelled “STOP TALKING!” at the poor lad at one point.
Anyway, phew, I managed it. I may be scarred for life, but it’s quite comedy that he now knows what ‘going commando’ means. Thank goodness we’ve already got the Christmas booze in! Off to have a very long shower…