Powers of Horror

Clever old Mother Nature: 9.45pm, yesterday.


















The first time Lucy projectile vomited, I thought I'd reincarnated an original cast member of The Exorcist. As if further proof were needed, she followed this with a virtuoso faecal performance; most of which ended up on the back of my hand, where it remained for the afternoon.

Apologies, Dear Reader, but I do have the shocking misfortune to report that baby care is often this gross. What's even more shocking is the fact that, whilst a normal reaction might have been to undergo a swift scrub-down in a darkened room before casting Lucy aside forever, I merely shrugged and carried on with the day.

But how? How, in the name of all that is good and holy, is this possible? Why aren't millions of new mothers leaving their young in the waste disposal at the first smell of that over-filled nappy and the first sight of vomit chuckling its way down their best Versace trousers? Surely no force in the world is enough to help you park your disgust and pay happily for your Tesco's shopping with a faeces-caked hand?

Ah, but enter stage left, Mother Nature: a clever old stick if ever there was one. There you are, dripping in a rainbow of infant bodily fluids and along comes sly old MN, whispering in your baby's ear that now might be a good time to smile at you.

Yup, that's it: just a single, tiny, fleeting smile. But somehow it's everything and enough. Suddenly the entire world stops moving and it's like ten thousand shards of happy glass have pierced your heart.

And trust me: it might not get your nails clean, but it's a feeling that wipes even the most vesuvian of bowel movements right out your head.