I live in a world dominated by poo.
If you're new to The Gravel Farm, don't worry. You haven't accidentally stumbled upon a blog dedicated to the arguable delights of coprophilia*.
I have a baby:
A hairy one.
We shall call her "Bonobo".
Now, I don't particularly want to write a blog about babies, because there are lots of specialist blogs dedicated to the hormonally challenged which are far better at depicting cutesie sprog pics and gushing prose about Juniors every move, but at the moment it's all I know.
So forgive the momentary lapse into goo territory.
There are only a few things babies are good at:
Crying. Doing an impression of a tortoise on it's back. Slow blinking. Weeing like tiny racehorses. Grabbing their own eyes. Hiccuping.
They are very good at poo.
You get obsessed with the stuff.
Is it there? Is there enough of it? Is there too much? It's black! Is it supposed to be black? Is it black enough? Is it too black? It's green! Is it supposed to be green? Is it green enough? Is it too green? It's yellow! Is it supposed to be yellow? Is it yellow enough? Is it too yellow?
You get the drift.
This is the second time I've been through this and, although I'm definitely a bit more relaxed about it now, I still worry.
My nappy changing skillz are phat, mind.
You start off gritting your teeth and panicking about the tiniest crumb of potential contamination, and you end up changing a full nappy with one hand and not putting your doughnut down with the other.
Like I said, skillz.
Of course, the other thing babies are good at is making your chest swell and your emotions run high, so you're happy to stare at them like a soppy hawk for no reason at all and run to attend to their every need.
Conniving little critters.
*If you were looking for such a site can I direct you to this purveyor of specialist hot tubs. No need to thank me. Each to their own. I'm not one to judge. Mind if we don't shake?