Poopageddon

Hands up, who let Grace gobble all the satsumas? Grace has just crapped in the bath while she was having her hair washed.

Getting into the festive spirit, Grace has released her own version of deck the bath with bowels so holy. Totally grossed out, I'm only marginally less peeved to see the dog has wet herself on the sofa. And she was doing so well (I think we were up to "my name is Daisy and I've had 28 dry nights...")

I'm quietly grateful that Grace has the trots now and not on Christmas Day when my Turkey cooking skills might have been called into question.

I've given up trying to get a urine sample from Grace - she's much happier, save the look on her face when she farted and followed through, and there is no longer the smell of ketones on her breath.

I must confess the title of this post is not home grown - I read a parenting blog by a mother called Megan in the USA, where she very comically recalls the time her toddler pooped in the swimming pool at an exclusive hotel. The joys of being a parent are endless it seems!

Anyway, drama over, I'm getting comfy on the dry side of the sofa, Grace is in bed sleeping with a rumble-tum gut, the Husband is in the bathroom cleaning out the aftermath, and soon I shall be sinking a bottle of beer to rekindle the Christmas cheer that flew out the window, albeit briefly, when Grace and Daisy-woof conspired to wreck the illusion of peace.