Once upon a time, people had babies without Google. Chances are, you were one such baby. How did you survive? How did I?
PART 1: Parenting pre-Google
There’s a 2am poonami. It is green. Sea glass green. It has squelched half way up her back and pooled in an armpit.
This is bad. You’re a regular at the dog park, so you know poo is not supposed to be green. It is supposed to be brown and turns white if you leave it there too long.
Are six week olds supposed to poo green? You look it up in the baby book you borrowed from the library. Seriously? Who rips pages out of library books? And about infant faeces of all things.
You resettle her, change the bassinet sheets and pop her back in.
It’s 2.14 and you’re adding the manky bassinet sheets and the now pink and green onesie to the soaking pile. You’re out of Napisan. Can you use normal bleach on coloured clothes? Hang on, can you use normal bleach on baby clothes at all? What if she gets some hideous skin condition?
You wake your husband. “Can you use normal bleach on colours?”
“Normal bleach. Can you use it on colours? And do you know anything about green poo?”
“You don’t need to bleach poo,” he says. “Just flush it.” He rolls over and recommences one of his more hideous snoring patterns.
Maybe that’s what turns dog park poo white.
Oh great. Señor McSnore woke the baby again. Maybe he has apnoea. Is that how you spell it? Looks weird.
Another feed, baby girl? You’re kidding. Was it right boob or left boob? You feel around to see which one seems fuller.
FARK. What is that?
You’ve discovered a lump. It’s the shape of a peanut. What if you’ve got breast cancer? Your aunt had breast cancer. Maybe you have the gene. Obviously, you don’t want your baby drinking cancerous milk, so you stop feeding.
“Babe,” you try waking him with a gentle shove.
The baby’s screaming now. She’s hungry. What’s that smell—she’s done another green poo!
The cancer has turned her poo green.
“BABE!” You smack his arm until he wakes up.
Is this domestic violence? Are you causing your baby irreparable psychological damage?
Husband stirs. “What?”
“Sorry,” you kiss him better, now beating yourself up.
“That’s okay.” He rolls over again.
“I think I might have cancer so you need to mix a bottle of formula.”