Smirking From Home

Turning ideas into words.


I may never view a chicken korma  in the same light again.
Robert arrived back in November and  we were pretty darn chuffed. We’d waited a long time for this little bundle of gowling pleasure and when he was wrenched from the good lady’s belly, there was a sense of a job well done. A gentleman’s family we were told, now with one of each. We’ve been lucky so far that the wee lass has fully adopted him as her little pet lamb of love, or so she keeps telling him, as she smothers him with her hair when we’re trying to get him to have a little nap.  
You do forget about the many intricacies of having a new arrival in the house. The timing of the feeds, the military operation that is the sterilisation and production of the bottles. However, you’re just not prepared for the delights and wonders of nappy time. I have to admit that first time round with the wee lass I probably wasn’t as hands-on with the nappies as I should have been. Being a potential househusband means that I need to get stuck in so to speak and so far it’s not really been a problem. All has been generally tame and if there’s been a nappy explosion, there’s usually been the two of us here to deal with it. Until yesterday.
Holy Mother of Jaysus! Imagine the finale of Bugsy Malone, only this time using the afore-mentioned chicken korma. This was worse. I knew it was coming. The puce face, the furrowed brows and the sly grin. Nothing to worry about, a routine change required. Squelch squelch, splurt, eeewwww. “Ah Robbie ye wee bollix. What are ye at?” Give a little love and it all comes back to you indeed. Tra la la bloody la la la la.
The wee lass had previously described his output as chicken curry and that seems to have stuck. A bit like yesterday really. Stuck everywhere and anywhere. Up the back? Tick. Toes? Tick. Under the fingernails? Tick. More ticks than a stray dog? Tick. How in the name of all that is pure in the world can someone so small produce  something so devastatingly putrid? Rumsfeld’s “shock and awe” had nothing on this. Still, at least he seemed happy at the delights he had conjured up, a beaming grin portraying his obvious pleasure at having created such a visual and nasal display of bowel prowess. Good on ye wee lad but could ye not have waited until your Ma came home. I don’t genuinely mean that but it was a moment when too many chiefs and indians would not have been a problem.
Fifteen minutes later and all was back to normal. I’ll not even bother to describe the intervening water display half way through. You have the admire the wee fella’s ability to remain so calm when all about him was a maelström of choice words and bewildered exclamations. He must get that from his Ma. Melodrama is a standard trait on my side of the family tree. There’s no instance or occurence that cannot be turned into a request for UN help. I’m not sure the Blue Helmets would have welcomed this rescue mission. For now all is calm and so far today, any expulsions have been confined to manageable proportions. Keep up the good work, wee lad.
I’m dreading the Italian Meatballs phase though. 

February 10, 2010 - Posted by | Bringing Up Baby |


  1. So you think that’s bad….one of your nappies went straight into the bin…I’m not talking Pampers….good old fashioned cloth nappies. Can still see it to this day…..Like Father like Son. Did I ever tell you about your pink nappy? Pink wafer biscuits never darkened the door after that one!!!! Or about the time I inadvertingly put something coloured into the wash and as a result had pink nappies waving in the breeze! Maybe you were meant to be a girl!!!! Never mind, still love ya!

    Comment by Your Long Suffering Mother | February 16, 2010 | Reply

  2. Eeeep! It’s all coming out in the wash now, if you’ll pardon the pun.

    Comment by Magz | February 16, 2010 | Reply

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