I wondered if I would be able to write this week, because I am currently holidaying in a stunning resort in the Mamanuca group of islands, Fiji. There has been equal mix of smugness in the fact that I managed to book this without a single post on a mother’s group Facebook page, and also a teeny bit of irony that I am in Fiji at all (albeit without silver Seed sneakers). Yes, it crossed my mind this Friday might be a long, boring, loved-up island poem, which would leave you all wondering if had lost the fucking plot.
But, you can all rejoice. Less than 24 hours after my arrival on Castaway Island there was an…incident.
I’d spent the morning eating, swimming and walking amongst the gorgeous gardens and admiring the palm trees swaying in the light island breeze. Although I avoid using this word, this place is for all intents and purposes, perfect. I was well into “Fiji Time” already and it seemed like nothing could ruin my flow.
My two Womb Raiders, The Husband and I were frolicking in the kids pool and enjoying watching each other splash about. There was lots of kissing and hugging and general family loved-up shit, which made a nice departure from the screaming and yelling and general crap-ness which had been dogging us back home in recent months.
I had the 2 year old in my arms and was floating on my back with him on my belly, when I stood up to toss him in the air. I felt my heel slide on something on the bottom of the pool and when I looked down to see what this foreign slippery object was, I was horrified to see a giant chunk of human poo on my foot. Disgusted, I looked down and saw two or three more chunks glaring up at me in all their squishy brown glory.
I froze. I knew I shouldn’t be feeling anything slimy at the bottom of a swimming pool, so I started fantasising that it wasn’t a chunk of human excrement, but a Halloween stunt or a sea cucumber that had unfortunately made it inland. Then my lunch started rising in my throat and I began weighing up if I should drop my kid in the water and run, or if I should throw myself to the side of the pool and blow chunks in the bushes.
I pulled my shit together (and the shit stuck to my fucking foot) and instantly informed the pool staff of the code brown. The pool area went into immediate shutdown. And I was left wondering: What in the name of FUCK did I do to deserve this? Of all the people in the entire resort it had to be fucking Far Kew that treads on the turd. You cannot make this shit up!
Have you ever trodden on a dog poo with bare feet? Well this was just as pleasant as that with the added bonus of knowing it came out of the asshole of one of my fellow guests’ children. At least I must assume it was a child or I just keep dry retching.
Let’s discuss the scene of the
grime crime. Code Brown means someone shat in the pool. Simple. The usual protocol is to get everyone the fuck out of there while someone comes along with a shit net and scoops the log out of the pool. As far as I’m concerned, Code Brown is like polio. With the invention of swim nappies there is no way something like this should happen. Think of it like a vaccination for your kids butt hole.
And like Polio, this tropical menace lay dormant, stuck to the bottom of the pool, waiting for yours truly to be drawn to it like a fucking turd magnet. While I have no idea how long it was there and precisely how much time I spent swimming around in this fetid shit soup, I am at least certain that it was not my child. In fact, I’m proud to say my kids have never caused a code brown. NEVER.
So, who dunnit? Who ruined my Castaway vibe by making me swim in a poonami pool? Which fool didn’t put a swim nappy on their kid, or who owns a dirty little snot rat that shook one out of the legs of their togs? I don’t know. But what I do know is that it simply should not happen!
I think I’ll minimise my risk and paddle in the ocean instead. I’ll risk getting eaten whole by a starving moray eel or impaling myself on a piece of coral. Anything is preferable to sliding on a butt nugget in the resort pool.
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