Wherein I admit something shameful

Wherein I admit something shameful

Thursday, 23 September 2010

I received a lovely text from Keith on my way home today. It read:

You will be pleased to know we have dealt with jiggy. It was usual disgustingness, no sign of Ben and Jerrys reaction though. Love you XXX

I know, there are so many things wrong with this whole scenario your head's about to explode, yeah?

First we fed our son ice cream which, oh no wait, that's right, we couldn't have fed our son ice cream could we because he's allergic to dairy isn't he? Well the jury is still out after a hideous bedtime, but having mugged his dad for half his tub o' vanilla it seems Alfie's digestive output was in no way impacted by consuming moo juice. In this house that counts as a result.

Secondly there's the whole fact that my husband saw fit to text me with the news in the first place. Seriously, we didn't start off like this, I promise you. We used to abuse our text service in the way most couples do before they reproduce and forget the generally accepted limits of conversation.

Finally there is the "jiggy" thing, which is actually what I wanted to ask all you fellow parents:

Do you have a nickname for your children's bodily functions?

Come on, be honest with me, I need to know. Are we teetering on the fringes of those career parents that you would be scared of taking to a Greek restaurant for fear we'll shout "OOPSIE" and start trying to sweep up the broken plates?

Impressive isn't it? I've just used up the 100th post on this blog to ask about nicknames for poo. I think I just done answered my own question.