Friday late afternoon, children are irritable and hangry having just been woken from falling asleep in the car. Knocking on 6pm I was hurriedly trying to scrape together a pasta dinner in hope that for perhaps a mere 10mins it might fill them up and stop them pestering me for snacks. They are tucking into their dinner, I walk round the kitchen counter and do one of those wierd half jump, screech moves as I see a rather large rat lying on the floor quite close to my eldest daughters feet.
Decapitated rodents are a familiar sight in our house, Mandoo one of two household pets, is a keen hunter and makes futile attempts to win back our affection or just receive any kind of attention by bringing in regular gifts. Mice are pretty standard, a few weeks back it was a Gliss Gliss tail. Frogs have been a rare culinary treat but this was our first rat .
There is something about a larger cat caught offering that makes you look at them and think they are going to get up, especially when fully intact (which is rare in our house). Now while my logic knows a rat wouldn’t pop in and have a siesta on our kitchen floor it doesn’t stop me thinking that if I bend down to remove it, it might just jump at me. So I made the decision to leave it there for a further hour and let my husband deal with it when he got home.
Meanwhile while I’m having a UB40 moment, my youngest at 18 months has literally smothered herself in pasta sauce and subsequently raspberries. I decided that for Little R an early bath was definitely in order rather than let her loose near our soft furnishings. Upon picking her up I realised there had been a more pressing incident. Pasta Sauce and raspberry juice was the least of my worries. A Vesuvius like eruption was flowing out her pants. Now she eats a lot but his was her 4th movement of the day, the expectation was that surely her 18 month old belly couldn’t hold that much more but I was wrong. Add to that the potency of a teething poo and she was smelling like she’d been out on the Vodkas last night and was suffering the consequences of a bad kebab.
At arms length she was moved swiftly upstairs. Straight to bathroom, clothes in sink, suddenly there was crap everywhere, the bathroom floor, the bath, oozing down her legs, across the toilet where I had made a futile attempt to scrape the contents of one of her trouser legs out. I called to my 4 year old for assistance! I must have sounded desperate as for once she listened and Sophia the First was, for the first time in weeks, put on pause as she dashed upstairs gathering the list of items I called out for. Nappy bags, wipes, cloths, gas mask etc.
Surfaces were cleaned as little R stood naked and bemused in the empty bath. Once she was also sorted, removed from bath, bath throughly cleaned it was back in for a proper wash to tackle the pasta sauce which was still staining her cheeks and hair. A few minutes in and her face went red as “that” strained look of concentration looked back at me somewhat guilty.
I was having a shocker!
Amazingly despite a 4.5 year old and an 18 month old I had never had to contend with the poo in the bath scenario. This was not a scoop out in one go situation. Did I rinse her off while standing in it? Did I take out a once again dirty child and stand her on the bath mat providing yet another job to my ever growing list of things that needed to be throughly disinfected?
I hosed her down, out she came, she stood cold and freaked out by the upheaval. The bathroom did feel cold and I felt guilty but it’s JULY, I refuse to succumb to putting the heating on. I dealt efficiently with the bath, unblocked the plug hole and throughly cleaned it again! Ready once again to start over with her bath while me talking willing my husband to come back asap, sniggering to myself and giving myself a mental high five.
At last she was clean, all was intact and I rushed her out to get a nappy on before I had to contend with any further shit storms. It was Friday night and as I glanced at Instagram to see pics of people heading out for a big night to celebrate the start of he weekend I literally laughed out loud vowing that next Friday night my evening would be an all together more sophisticated affair.
Finally kids sorted, in bed, clean and smelling much more appealing I headed downstairs to tackle some more disinfecting and drown myself in a large glass of rum.
The rat was gone.