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Awake. Muttering to himself, looking at his hands.

So earlier this week I may have offended someone.

It looks at though our favourite friend, the poo, who we shall now refer to as Mr P, caught wind (pun absolutely intended) of my harsh review of his antics.

Clearly upset with his tainted reputation, today it was game on.

It started fairly. He made an appearance at the little masters aunt's house during a morning play session with his cousin. It was a little unwelcome, especially up the back and onto the singlet. That's kind of annoying, even more so when the spare singlet in the nappy bag was used the day prior. With little time up my sleeve this morning, I didn't replace it.

AP:0, Mr P: 1

Oops, oh well, it's no big deal. All changed and clean, we carried on just without a singlet under his top. Completely under control.

Until that is, once we were at home and with the little master sitting on my lap, I thought 'I should really get a singlet on him'.

Literally 10 seconds later, I felt the warm patch appear on my lap.

Ohh he's done a wee. Sigh, rolls the eyes, that's ok little master.

Until I realised I was wrong. Very wrong.

Mr P had reared his ugly head again, up the back for round two and all over my favourite blue jeans. Then just to make his point, a couple of blobs on the carpet.

AP:0, Mr P: 2

In all honesty (and I may regret being too honest here) my main concern wasn't necessarily with the little master – he was fine, much lighter and happier. But me – my jeans! Not my jeans, I love these jeans, please don't bring them into it. It's not fair. This is not fair game!


Within moments the little master was lying safely on the floor, bare bottom wrapped in a sheet, kicking happily.

Thank goodness he was blissfully unaware of his mother running around the house with no pants on, frantically emptying the pockets, throwing them in the machine, then like a germ obsessed mad woman, on her hands and knees (still pantless) scrubbing the floor with baby wipes.

Baby wipes? Yes, I know. Apparently pressure produces diamonds. Well not in this case, it was my only option at the time ok!

Once the little master was changed (again), resettled by his still pantless mother, I gathered my thoughts, slipped my trakkie dacks on (about time) and remembered the carpet spot cleaner in the laundry.

Gold! Actually no, it's orange. The magnificent Orange Power.

Back on my hands and knees scrubbing frantically, I then managed to pin point other stains I just couldn't leave behind. Buddy dog stains, shoe stains, baby vomit stains. Then my obsessive side really kicked in and in no time it was as if we had brand new carpet. Thanks Orange Power, you're the best!

But I wasn't satisfied. Mr P's presence remained; I could still smell him when I re-entered the room. I'll give it another charge of this stuff, it's worked a treat everywhere else.

By this stage the windows were open, Buddy had retreated to another room in disgust and I was left scratching my head wondering why I could still smell it.

Then I glanced at him.

Kicking away in his bouncer, chomping on his Sophie le Giraffe, happy as.

Surely not. Couldn't be. Really?

I was two sets down and really thought it was the best of three. Mr P had won, it was game over. I didn't want to play anymore.

Looks like it was the best of five sets.

He had arrived again but in a much more civilised manner. He knew I was tired, had had enough. But needed to win one last point.

AP: 0, Mr P: 3

Game, set, match, championship. Whatever.

It was my turn to pick up my bat and ball and go home.

At least this time I had my pants on.


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