The Good Intentions


The adventures of Cinnamon Cricket continue…

We’re going to Mother’s Group today. Mother’s Group is a room full of women all judging each other. It’s at Kelly’s house. I don’t trust Kelly because she’s 26 years old – practically a child raising a child – which means baby Lucas is likely doomed.

Because Lucas is doomed I’ve decided to focus my friendships elsewhere. I think Iris might be my favourite. Iris poos in a bucket. Can you imagine? I wish Mum would let ME poo in a bucket. Pooing in a bucket has a name. It’s called Elimination Communication. That means you tell the Mum when you’re ready to poop and the Mum holds you over a bucket. How GLAMOROUS!

I’ve learned a lot about mothers in my time and the one thing they all have in common is ‘good intentions’. Good intentions means not doing it. This is swiftly followed by guilt, followed by gin. It turns out Mum had the good intentions about me pooing in a bucket, but then drank gin instead. I’m very disappointed. Iris has all the fun.

When we get to Kelly’s I remember the rug. The rug is huge and hairy and the mothers think it’s cute to pile us all on there at the same time and then have good intentions and abandon us to the rug and go drink gin. I don’t want to be on the rug. I want to eat cake and poo in a bucket. Normally when I don’t want to do something I just grizzle and then forget about it and do something else, but last week Grandma texted me and suggested when that happens I don’t have to do something else, that maybe Mum would like the opportunity to give me an I am woman, hear me roar moment that I can really own. I think that moment is nigh.

There are eight babies on the hair rug. I’m next to Lily. Lily is the naughty one. On top of Lily is Liam. He’s the acrobat. Next to Liam is Jackson. He’s the giggler. Next to Jackson is Ethan. He looks like Tony Soprano and I’m going to marry him one day. In the middle is Iris. She’s the hippy (who gets to poo in a bucket). Next to Iris is Lucas. He’s doomed. Next to Lucas is Olivia. She’s the screamer.

The two babies you really don’t want to be next to on the hair rug are Lily and Liam and I’m next to both of them. Liam has sensed my fear and uses Lily’s face as a springboard to get to my face. It’s like slow motion, seeing her nose flatten under his foot as his toenails dig into Lily’s eyeballs. Last night Mrs. Liam had the good intention to cut his nails, but gin, and now Liam is standing on Lily’s face and her eyeballs are bleeding. Just as I’m contemplating what my maneuver should be, Jackson spies the bleeding eyeballs and starts giggling. Not your every day giggle, more of an I-watched-R-rated-when-I-should’ve-watched-PG-rated-I’m-hysterical giggle. This giggle sets Iris’s bowel a-gurgling and she frantically starts slapping her hand against her leg. This is her sign to Mrs. Iris that she needs to poop. But Mrs. Iris is in the kitchen with all the other gin guzzlers and her slapping goes unnoticed. This would be ok if Iris had pants on. Iris doesn’t have pants on and before you have time to say candy is dandy but liquor is quicker there are seven babies covered in poo. Liam is spared because he did a double axel over my face and landed on his head on the floorboards. Everyday, garden-variety poo is slippy, but hippy poo is extra slippy because of all the lentils and dandelions. Among our eight babies four are crawling, one is walking (the face-walker), and the others are rolling and flailing. It’s the flailers who are causing all the mess. Flailing arms and legs are the windscreen wipers. Poo is the rain.

This seems as good a time as any to try out my womanly roar. Seems more than justified. Turns out my roar rivals Olivia in the volume stakes; we performed a duet in fact. Suddenly there are eight maternal faces staring down in abject horror. I stop screaming and point at Lucas. He’s licking poop off his index finger and then holding it aloft like he’s checking the breeze. Mrs. Lucas laughs and I applaud her caviler attitude to parenting (Lucas is doomed).

After showers and changes of clothes and a lengthy discussion about whether it’s even worth trying to get poo out of the hair rug, it turns out the hair rug is doomed too, which makes the whole getting pooed on thoroughly worth it.



Filed under Baby, blogging, Family, Fiction, Humour, IVF, Love, Motherhood, Writing

4 responses to “The Good Intentions

  1. Dawn

    Cinnamon Cricket, what a morning you had! I remember Mum had good intentions with the bucket. I think when you actually arrived she realised you were quite a deal of work (in the nicest possible way) and abandoned that plan for a safer one. Good for you with the loud screaming. I’m glad you remembered the instructions. xx


  2. chellebelle42

    Flailing arms and legs are the windscreen wipers. Poo is the rain.

    This is hysterical.


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