It probably wasn’t the best idea to announce to my colleagues at Gazette Towers I’d had my ‘first poo in the bath’ situation the other day.
That is without explaining it wasn’t actually me in the bath.
To make it perfectly clear – it was my 18-month-old son William, who turned fun, playful bath-time into panic stations in a spilt second.
We’d probably done quite well to go 18 months without any accidents in the bath.
But William decided to choose an evening when the hubby was out and I had to deal with the poo situation alone.
And, of course, it had to happen when he had more toys in the bath than Toys R Us have on their shelves.
So, the little chap was happily playing with his rubber ducks, boats, dolphins, and sharks and splashing around in the water as usual.
But as I turned to get his toothbrush ready I heard some ‘ooh, ooh, ooh’ noises.
As I glanced back, I saw him pointing at things floating in the bath – which were certainly not his toys!
Panic-stricken, I swiftly lifted him out of the bath before he started picking any of it up and had to leave him running around the landing, dripping wet, while I sorted out this unwelcome visitor in the bath water.
Having never dealt with this situation before, and with limited resources, my only option was to use William’s little toy fishing net to scoop it all out.
(You’ll be glad to know the fishing net has since been incinerated.)
And after getting William in bed, I spent the rest of the evening disinfecting his toys.
Whoever said baths were meant to be relaxing?