I’ve been changing nappies for nearly five years now. I can change nappies with them standing up, lying down, awake, asleep, in a car, on a floor, on a table. I can change nappies with my eyes open, my eyes closed, talking, cooking, telling a story, or just plain gazing out the window wondering if this is my two millionth or three millionth nappy. So ingrained in my every day routine, it’s on a par with breathing, drinking and eating. It’s just what I do. Occupation? Nappy changer. Hobby? Nappy changing.
So even though I’ve spent the last few months cajooling, negotiating, discussing, demonstrating, bribing, pleading and begging Poppy to consider giving up her nappies for the pleasure of pants, and been met with a definite ‘NO!’, I haven’t been able to envisage a world without them.
And then yesterday my world shifted on its axis. Poppy announced she wanted to do a wee wee on the toilet, strutted off to the loo, promptly did her business, wiped and flushed and sauntered out with that look I’ve come to know so well. The look that says “on my terms, Mummy. On my terms.” Two hours later, a poo was delivered with the same aplomb and we haven’t looked back since. And just like that I’m living in a nappy free world. I am no longer a nappy changer. (I’m well aware that in exactly 26 weeks and 3 days it’ll all start over, but I can enjoy it for a while!). I’m slightly at a loss.
I shouldn’t be surprised though at the suddeness of it all. I saw that same look when I was trying to encourage Poppy to walk. She refused. Point blank. Then one day she promptly got up and strolled into the kitchen with a backward glance to my dropped jaw that said with a wink, “Gotcha.”
I have a funny suspicion that I’m going to be gotcha’d quite a lot over the next few years.