She was splashing and smiling and cooing when it happened. I was gazing down at my sweet baby girl, floating in my arms as lavender scented bubbles formed a halo of fun, bath time memories around her chubby pink cheeks.
And then, before I could take cover…
The calm and serenity was torn apart with an attack on all that is good and peaceful on this earth.
This wasn’t just the launch of a chocolate torpedo. There was no floating Chokito, if you know what I mean. This was a toxic spill of SES proportions. It began with an ominous gurgling, a faint tang in the air, before the eruption that would contaminate the entire water supply.
A Code Brown is a two parent alert in our household. The first task was to evacuate the non-essential personnel – the big brother and the cat – before they were overcome with fumes. Then, like the complete hero I am, I plunged my bare hand deep into that dank water to pull the plug. Because nothing screams, “I’m a mother” like willingly dunking your hand in someone else’s poo soup.
A makeshift triage centre was created to deal with the afflicted bath toys and washcloths. My still smiling and decidedly unapologetic bub was hosed down under the tap by my husband while I launched a full scale antiseptic attack on the rim of scum left on the white porcelain.
What followed was an endless stream of rinsing, scrubbing, re-rinsing and scrubbing again until the shituation was eliminated.
Eventually the bath was clean, the baby was dressed and the Code Brown was over.
But, no matter how sparkling the tub or how fresh the baby, nothing can erase the mental image of your child happily sitting in a stew of their own waste.
This post was written by Lauren Dubois of TheThud for ALDI but all of it is true – especially the bit about the heroic nature of code brown rescues.