• crewders

...whose first post baby poo wouldn’t flush?

Updated: Nov 19, 2019

4 days after the trauma of a c-section, having eaten a bag of prunes and drunk shit tonne of orange juice I finally gave into a poo tea; an American herbal concoction of Senna and other bowel stimulating potions. And? Nothing. But Ava started shitting herself, literally. Up her back. And queue my first bout of “I’m a terrible mother. I’ve given her a poo tea. Her bowels are ruined.” A quick call to 111 and I was soon reassured. Turns out that one weak herbal tea would not have made it into her system within 3 hours especially given I’d not actually fed her since. And breathe.

He was downstairs with her when an overwhelming pulling sensation began in my bum area. Holy shit, it’s coming. Just as he comes upstairs with a sobbing child. “She needs you"

“I need space right now. Sorry, take her away.”

“Babe she is crying. She needs you”

My face changes and I adopt a Darth Vader voice ...

“Listen to me when I say I NEED SPACE, back off, just go. Don’t watch this.”

Looking disturbed they retreat.

I sit. I prayed to god and my dead grandparents to not let my stitches rip. Seriously now if anyone could see me. In a once white dressing down, with big knickers around my ankles, leaking tits, unwashed hair, milk/sick/tears smeared onto every orifice with my feet on top of the nappy bin to elevate and help the release, holding on to the bowl and saying please grandma please god don’t let this hurt. I’ll do anything, I won’t moan about lack of sleep ever again. Blatant lies to actual god.

Having not experience labour I can’t compare the two, but I will. I gave birth and I’m quietly confident it weighed more than Ava’s 7lbs3ounces.


Water starts to rise. Oh my Christ. What? WHAT? Breathe. Just breathe and reflush. Naturally it continues to rise. Oh fuckit. Walk away. No one will come to the top floor loo for an hour. It’ll have calmed down by then.

I sort the baby out. Miraculously get her to sleep and return to the scene of the crime.

Flush. It rises. MOTHER OF FUCKING GOD WHYYYYYYY??? I spy the full tenner lady knickers my dad bought me when he said can I get you anything. “Yes, pads” was not the answer he was looking for but fair play to the guy he got them, sadly ones for grannies but still he tried.

I tear the wrapping off the pads and use that as a plastic hand protector. In I go. Sweet Jesus it weighs a tonne. I'm now stood in rank dressing gown, like a rabbit in headlights holding my own 7lb shit when I hear him shouting he'll be up in two.

Fuckit. I'll throw it out the window. Opening the window, I see Dan's car on the drive. Can hardly throw this on that now can I? Sweat is pouring, the poo stinks and I am close to tears both from throbbing nipples, a searing pain right through my c-section scar and the fact that this is my life. As I hear him head up the stairs, I spy the nappy bags. I lob that giant shit in 7 bags, chuck it in the bin and wobble off to bed.

The next day he questioned my unusually sprightly good mood as I laughed clutching my scar while he took the nappy bin out, "Christ knows what she's eating, this thing weighs a tonne". How my stitches didn't rip is beyond me.

I got away with it. For 24hours.

Ping. WhatsApp from Dan.


Ping. WhatsApp from sister.

Heads up we're at Andy's 40th. Mum's ratfaced and just told Dan you were about to smear shit on his Porsche. It's 8:23pm I'm sending her home. Sorry bird, your 💩 is the talk of the party.


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Which sounds like a dare from student days. But alas stood on the hardshoulder of the M4 covered in milk puke in my bra is not quite a dare I fancied three hours into the five hour road trip to Devon