The unfamiliar smell we brought back to the house from the hospital didn't go unnoticed by Heather. She leaped and twirled with glee to see Bob and I, while skillfully averting her gaze from the smell. Soon, curiosity got the dog and she began casting furtive glances her way until she could stand it no more and embarked upon a sniffing campaign to rival the finest perfumeries in Provence. Chicken was asleep in her car seat while we kept a watchful eye, we were keen to include Heather in the momentous occasion so as not to incite jealousy.
The hands and feet were first, then a gentle snuffle around the face before she found the source of the most tantalising smell - the bum. She kept her nose pinned against the area while she took the stink deep into her olfactory bank with an air of suspicion. To Heather, poo was something to be rolled in, but she seemed to know instinctively that rubbing her neck on this thing would not have earned her a reward. Although, it didn't stop her trying to sneak the odd dirty nappy for the occasional between-meals snack!
Chicken's delivery had been aided by a ventouse - a suction cup of sorts which gently latches onto the baby's head and teases it out (for particularly stubborn babies who don't fancy the look of the outside world). That all went well, however, what I wasn't prepared for was the effect this would have on her still soft and malleable head which easily contorted into the shape of a peanut. A peanut wearing a black wig. Along with her torso resembling an overly blown balloon with her arms and legs springing from it like pipe cleaners; she looked more like the results of a child's exploration into the craft box than a baby! Of course to us she was a perfect specimen of the human race, but I could understand, that to the un-smitten eye, she looked more like Bert from The Muppets!
Within a few short weeks the peanut reverted to a more pleasing Malteser, allowing me to focus on other, far more troubling issues. In my fragile state of mind (still deeply suspicious of my maternal abilities) I successfully managed to send many a nurse on the NHS Helpline running for their prescription drugs. "Is her umbilical cord supposed to be black?" "She's got a snotty nose, can she still breathe?" "Is her poo really supposed to be the colour of Dijon mustard?" I even made them listen to her breathing down the phone line when I feared a slight tickle in her throat could have been whooping cough. Each call was met with the same response, "I'm sure she's fine but if you need reassuring then take her to your GP." I roughly translated this as, "Sod off you loony tune and get a grip!" Now, don't get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for the NHS Helpline, they were always patient with me even though I deserved a verbal bollocking because I was a loony tune!
It was while submerged in this nuttiest era of my life that I chanced meeting an old friend for a coffee; nowhere too ambitious, but she was a single friend and I was keen to show her the joys of motherhood, especially as her response to my pregnancy had been, "but you hate kids!" I wanted to assuage her concerns with a display of blissful contentment. I felt the occasion demanded attire less trampy than my adopted look of late and scoured my wardrobe for something suitable. The day was warm so I picked out a pale pink shirt with a repeating rose pattern and a cream skirt.
Chicken was lying on her play mat pretending to watch Eeyore bounce up and down while playing along with the charade that mummy was competent and sane. I was already tetchy as I hadn't dared try to be human in the three weeks since her birth and I was beginning to realise why. My shirt only just managed to button over my three sizes larger boobs and the zip from my skirt was threatening to either burst at the seams or eat into my flesh. I was uncomfortable - make that extremely uncomfortable, but it was either that, maternity clothes, or Bob's jeans. I suffered in silence.
I was just about ready to leave and scooped Chicken up from the mat. As I did I put my hand on a damp patch on her bum. Please don't let it be poo, please don't let it be poo. It was poo. Well, you know how a baby's poo is runny with the staining determination of gloss paint? (You can see where this is going can't you?) It had soaked through her one and only posh baby-grow all the way up to her neck. Bollocks! I threw down my industrial sized bag bursting with half of Mothercare's stock and ran up the stairs to the changing mat. I slipped off her clothes and nappy while muttering to her that her timing was all off if we were to convince my friend that we were naturals at this parenting game. She wasn't amused. I watched intrigued while her expression took on a look of deep concentration. What is she doing? She soon enlightened me when a fresh river of poo shot from her bum and began racing towards the end of the mat and the hapless me. I dodged it more nimbly than Muhammad Ali! I bet you thought it was going to get me didn't you? Fooled you!
Feeling empowered by my lightening reflexes, I changed her quickly, sped out of the door and soon arrived at the cafe. After the customary double kiss and her introduction to Chicken, we sat down for our coffee and catch up. The conversation soon faltered when she asked me, "What's that on your forehead?" Smiling, I touched my forehead to feel for the distraction. My fingers came away mustard yellow. I couldn't believe my eyes - I had poo on my forehead! At that precise moment, Chicken decided she was hungry after all that pooing, and let out a yell that could have curdled Dracula's blood making my boobs stand instantly to attention and send a rushing gush of milk to the distressed infant. Unfortunately, everything happened too quickly for me to get Chicken in position in time and I had forgotten to put in my breast pads. The milk leaked through my pale pink shirt with the rose pattern like a burst dam, just as the button holding it all together finally popped under the strain exposing my ample flesh to the cafe. It was then that I cursed our choice of seat in the window as the gentleman pensioner, innocently walking by at the time, was treated to rather more than the usual promos of coffee and cake and nearly tripped over himself trying to escape. I looked at my friend whose expression was excruciatingly filled with pity as she said, "Why didn't you stick to dogs?"
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