Posted on Saturday, July 2, 2011
in Family, Rantings
This post will be a load of crap, but sometimes talking shite is all I have left.
This is especially true for every conversation I’ve had with Laughingboy’s teachers or nurses at school over the last three weeks. He hasn’t seen his schoolroom in over a month, thanks to this bizarre diarrhoea spate he’s been suffering, so they call me up every now and then to check his status.
For the last week, however, there’s been nothing excrementally newsworthy to tell them… the poor kid hasn’t produced so much as a nodge of poo whatsoever, so I don’t really know whether he’s better or not, meanwhile much-needed summer camp respite is on hold.
There aren’t that many ways to express this fact politely though, it’s hard to phrase the problem nicely… there’s:
-He hasn’t produced anything solid, nappy-wise.
-No bowel-movements as of yet.
-Bowel openings are a negative.
I yearn to just come right out with… “The little shit hasn’t had a dump in ages!”
…but that wouldn’t go down too well.
It was out in the garden earlier when I smelt the spurious hum. Laughingboy was swinging in his hammock with a smile on his face, Florence and the Machine was blasting through his earphones and he looked like he was in the zone… you know, that zone.
I whisked him out sharpish and brought him to his bed where I whipped off his tracksuit bottoms and tore at his nappy like a five year old at Christmas, hoping for a flash of brown underneath.
But it wasn’t to be.
I suddenly heard my mother’s voice, that wise poem she used to recite under the right circumstances:
Poor aul’ child, broken hearted;
Paid ten pee, but only farted.