You’ve just been handed your bundle of joy, you have hopes and dreams for what they will go on to become. Will they be a Dr, dentist or astronaut? Well there will be a few hurdles along the way before you get there…
Milk. All of it
You might not know this but babies like milk, I mean REALLY like it. More than your Dad loves lager. Whether it’s fresh from the udder or you’ve chosen to bottle feed they’ll still want more what feels like seconds after the last feed. You’d think that as they like it so much they’d manage to keep it in their podgy little bellies. Wrong. They like to mix it up every now and then and spew it back up in your hair. Bonus points if they get some in your mouth.
Babies love carrot puree. Carrot puree is also bright orange stainy bollocks. If you like the colour orange then happy days if not, then you’re quite frankly fucked if your kid has a particular passion for the stuff. Maybe you’ve read some books and decide that baby led weaning is the way to go. Get ready for the six pack you’ll get from jumping out of your seat every 10 seconds because you think they’re choking. That noise. It’s horrific.
Right let’s not beat around the bush here, you’re going to find shit where it shouldn’t be and on more than one occasion. Your kid might not want to be potty trained, they might hide behind the sofa and grunt or they might drop their trousers in the living room and start gurning when your Aunt Linda (who had all hers in pants at 6 months apparently) pops round.
One day you’ll be sat there watching your cute kid colouring a picture with their tongue hanging out the corner of their mouth. Then they’ll absent mindedly scratch their head. You’ll think nothing of it but then you’ll suddenly feel the urge to scratch your head. Then they will. Then you will. The whole world will become an itchy hellhole. You’ll drop to your knees in horror and quickly start scanning their little head for anything suspect. Then, out of the corner of your eye you’ll see movement. You’ll check closer and then you’ll realise you have visitors. Then you’ll jump back in horror, your kid starts crying, you start crying and you scream at your partner that you need the blowtorch. He’ll tell you to stop being so pissing ridiculous and go to Boots instead. You do. You stop to take out a remortgage on the way having checked online how much this stuff costs. You’ll spend hours removing them and be well proud of yourself. Until a fortnight later when the scratching starts again.
One evening you’ll be sat there, minding your own business watching TV and scoffing some chocolate you hid when you’ll hear some little feet plodding down the stairs. Quickly stuffing your contraband sweet stash under a cushion you’ll act all innocent and ask what they’re doing out of bed. “Mummmmmmm my bumhole is itchy!” will come the answer. Quickly rearranging the look of horror on your face you’ll try and say reassuring things whilst fighting the urge to throw them in the bin. You ask them to lie down so you can have a quick look wondering all the while if you’re gonna get arrested for this shit. You’ll try and look without looking and then you’ll spot them. White. Wriggly and fucking horrific you’ll hold back the scream threatening to escape and tell your kid everything is fine and pop them back in bed. First thing you’ll leg it to Boots again to buy worming tablets where you’ll be advised by Fiona on the counter that the whole family will need to be treated. I’m not going to lie, those tablets taste like absolute shite which I suppose is preferable to scratching your arsehole during the weekly team meeting.
One day you’ll be there just dozing off in bed and you’ll hear a “MUMMY!” followed by a splat. You’ll leap up to put the light on and step in something warm and wet. As the bulb springs to life you’ll spot the carrot pieces squashed between your toes and a green kid bent over in front of you. “Mum I don’t feel very well!” they’ll say. No shit, I nearly went arse over tit on your spew mate, you’ll think. You’ll get them all tucked back in bed with a bowl.
Just as you heave your fat arse back into your own bed and they’ll start being sick again. Will they get it in the bowl? Will they hell! It’ll go all over the sheet, the duvet, the pillow, their favourite soft toy, the carpet, the ceiling and your grandad. Stripping the bed, attempting to dodge the chunks flinging as you go and screeching get it in the bowl at 5 minute intervals. You’ll put clean beedding on for them and hope to whoever’s listening that they won’t be sick again. They will be. Hourly. Then just as it’s time to heave yourself up they’ll wake up decide they feel fine and scoff 12 bowls of Shreddies as you sob into your coffee.