Edie did a poo on the potty yesterday AND one on the big girl's loo at nursery today. She even got a sticker that said so.
But you know what that means don't you? Let me just wipe a tear from my eye as I say it...
There will be no more poo stories ever. I know. I know. I'm almost as distraught about it as you.
But before I pack away the nappies and break out the champagne, I thought it was only right, in light of Edie's, ahem, performances, that I mark the occasion with a final farewell.
I hereby give you the last ever poo story from Maternal Tales.
Last weekend marked my Aunt's 60th Birthday and we were invited along, en famille, to join in with the celebrations, with husband making such a surprise appearance that I think half of those assembled didn't know who he was.
But that aside, let me paint the picture for you. A smart garden party...barbeque...champagne and strawberries. I mean, I'd even considered wearing my new Pucci floor-length dress (ok, so it wasn't really Pucci, but it sure looked like it when I'd bid £5 at the frock exchange the week before). What I did eventually opt for was not important, other than I chose to wear it with flip flops. Now that is important. But as usual, I am digressing. Back to the point. What was it? Oh yes.
So, they have a dog, which, it has to be said, had been shipped off to a friend's house for the day, lest it get far too friendly with small children and their even smaller digits. But nonetheless, there is a dog in residence. This is important too.
Anyway, as I'm happily walking around the garden, admiring the roses, enjoying the sunshine, eyeing up the soon-to-be ready food, chatting with family and friends and delighted that my two small children are pre-occupied with other small cousins, I suddenly feel a squelch underfoot. Now as much as I may lead you all to think other things with my often ridiculous behaviour, I am not a stupid woman. I knew it could only mean one thing.
Dog poo which had managed to squish itself up and over my flip flops, spreading, as it did, right in between my toes. I was mortified. Obviously, I picked up the offending shoe and sniffed it, as is the normal habit, just to make sure it wasn't a mutant mud pie.
Not one to make a fuss, I ran accross the garden, flip flop in hand, screaming.
"Uncle David - I've just trodden in the most enormous turd that your ruddy mutt has left behind". (I didn't actually use the words 'ruddy mutt', but I can tell you that's what I was thinking).
A rather red-faced Uncle David quickly got to work removing said turd and was even gallant enough to offer to wash my shoe. Of course, I wouldn't have accepted his offer had it not been for the fact that it was his ruddy mutt's turd.
And that, I thought, was that.
Except it wasn't.
"That's strange", said my Aunt. "I could have sworn I'd cleared up all the poos. And the dog has been at a friend's house for a couple of days now."
Closely followed by my own Mother's interjection...
"It didn't look like a dog poo darling."
I was incredulous.
"What do you mean it didn't look like a dog poo? Well if it wasn't a dog poo, then who's poo..."
The true horror of the situation suddenly dawned on me.
"The dog's been gone for two days you say Auntie?" (Judging by the squelch factor alone that was not a two-day old turd. No, it was most certainly very fresh. Very fresh indeed).
I looked over at Edie.
She looked at me.
And I knew.
I just knew.
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