My girl Flicka and the Indestructible Turd
Updated: Feb 28
The kids and I were about to embark on an international adventure and were staying at my mum and step-dads prior to our departure. There were occasions that I thought that I had not considered the enormity of our impending trip, especially for the kids. They had both been a tad on the sensitive side, and with a week to go I was sensing signs of anxiety in all three of us.
I had stopped sleeping. I would go to bed exhausted but a few hours later I was still awake. Wide awake for the rest of the night. I didn’t think I could turn my brain off and it was getting to the stage where I was exhausted. Momma suggested that I take a couple of sleeping tablets to make sure I got a good night’s sleep. I am normally not one for any type of medication, but the thought of a good night’s sleep was about the most exciting thing I could contemplate at that moment in time. Better than sex? Of course, it bloody was. An uninterrupted night of sleep – oh my.
I sat on the couch and calculated when I could go to bed. When I could take my Temazapan and when would sleep hit. Would it be like fighting an anaesthetic I wondered? When they asked you to start counting backwards from ten and you tell yourself you will fight it, but you get lost somewhere after 9 and you wake up hours later with drool on your face, and the knowledge that some part of your body had been invaded.
Whilst I was lying on the couch looking forward to a deep and heavy sleep, Rissie joined me. Poor little mite was restless as well. As I was contemplating sleeping tablet heaven I let her sit up with me to watch the end of Masterchef whilst she consumed a large bottle of water. When we went to bed, I was so keen to get to sleep that I forgot to remind Rissie to go to the toilet. I was almost bloody sprinting down the hallway to desired oblivion. I blew the kid a quick kiss good night and got ready for sleep.
So, it was my fault really, that early into my heavy, amazing, solid sleep I heard a little voice. “Mummy……….Mummy.” I was not going to give into this. I could hear the voice calling. I was on the verge of waking up. I was going to ignore it. “Mummy……….Mummy, It’s really wet and it’s everywhere.” Fuck it. I felt like Michael Corleone – every time you try to get out, they pull you back in. I stumbled out of bed and went to her bedroom in my drug induced haze of exhaustion. Her bed was wet. Funny thing is that it was the top covers that were wet not the bottom. It was like she had been lying on her back and pissed in the air with an amazingly heavy stream of urine. She had pissed like a bloody horse. I told Flicka to get into some new pyjamas and go into my bed. The speed at which Flicka gave a little neigh, sprinted into my bed, got under the covers and fell asleep reminded me of someone I wanted to be. I suddenly became all bitter and twisted.
I stripped her bed, put the sheets and the blanket near the washing machine. The overlay went in front of the fire. I did not sleep again that night and was up at 5am whereby I decided to strip Archie’s bed as well. Why the hell not? I was tired and pissed off so why not do some laundry. I hate laundry. Temazapan sucks. If it was the good stuff I should have slept through the whole thing and been all sparkly when I had to deal with my daughter Flicka.
Later that morning I had no desire to deal with my children when I realised that Archie had been in the toilet for some time and he was repeatedly flushing the toilet. I went in to check on him and he was standing at the toilet fiddling with the cistern with one hand and holding the toilet brush in a strange way in the other. He looked at me with his little old man anxious look and said words that can bring dread into a mother’s soul, “Mummy, the poo won’t flush away.”
Oh, my god. For fuck’s sake. Not an indestructible turd. The last time I had dealt with an indestructible turd I had ended up on my knees, breaking the bastard up with a wooden cake spoon whilst fishing out the poo cement with kitchen gloves and vomiting into a bucket next to me at the same time. I had thrown the cake spoon, the bucket, the gloves and toilet cleaner into a garbage bag and then triple bagged it and thrown it into the wheelie bin whilst hurling into the garden. That is another story of course, but I just share snippets so you can understand the dread and horror with which I was filled with when I heard mention of an indestructible turd.
I looked cautiously into the bowl and saw that it was spotless. I reassured my little boy with the bowels of steel and said to him, “It’s ok buddy, all good.” He shook his head at me which made me worry. For fuck’s sake he hadn’t put his poo into the cistern, had he? Because if he had, that would really make me spew. But he shook his head when I gestured to the cistern. When I asked him what he was worried about, his little eyes filled up with tears and he held up the toilet brush. For fucks sake, he had impaled a great big piece of turd on the toilet brush and it was stuck there. I knew exactly how this was going to play out and said to him in a panic, “I am not cross Archie, I am not cross. But get that thing out of here.” I threw up in the laundry sink and he headed for the kitchen with the impaled piece of poo. I screamed at him, “NOT in the kitchen Archie. I am not cross. I am not cross but get that thing outside. Hose it down. High pressure hose it down.”
I finished throwing up then checked that all was good in the toilet and that there wasn’t another great big piece of turd waiting for me in the cistern. I then braved the elements outside. Archie was standing by the tap trying to unravel the hose whilst he gingerly held the evil toilet brush with its impaled turd as far away from him as he could manage. I manned up and pulled my big girl undies on (that is figuratively of course, this story would enter a whole other dimension if I was walking around bare from the waist down). We dealt with the indestructible turd. Archie took it over to the dirt. I used the hose and we hosed that turd away. Then I stood there for about five minutes whilst I hosed that turd into oblivion whilst occasionally having a chuck. Then I hosed and bleached the shit out of that toilet brush and holder.
All was good. All was ok. I mean for fuck’s sake. Some mums have these picture-perfect kids. Some mums wear Active Wear and have perfect hair and have coffee dates. My daughter is like Flicka because she can piss like a horse. And my son is like superman but instead of kryptonite he has indestructible turds. What the hell was I going to do if he produced one of those beauties and blocked up the toilet on the plane?
I was never fucking sleeping again.