Did I tell you the one about my dressing gown?

I am an occasional collector of supermarket promotional stamps. If it’s pyrex or wine glasses, I’m in there collecting coupons like a nutter. But most of the time I can take them or leave them.

During the summer last year, Tesco had a bit of a funny one on the go. It was a seemingly random collection of bed linen, towels, candles and something else with a bit of bamboo in it. But there was one particular item that caught my eye – a white, Egyptian cotton towelling bathrobe with a hood, the kind that you associate with a really posh spa day and see yourself melting into after a massage and a trip to the sauna.

My own dressing gown was at least five years old and although I loved it, it was a grey manky piece of crap at that stage so it really needed to go. My heart was set on the shiny new one. I pictured myself emerging from the steam of the shower into this hot press-warmed loveliness. All summer long I collected the stamps. I thought we might get his and hers, but himself was not as crazy keen as me so by the end of August I had enough to get the discount.

I was chuffed with myself when I got it home. It was long enough to go right down to my ankles. It was exactly the texture and weight I had anticipated. I lovingly took it out of the packet and stuck it in its own private, unadulterated washing machine cycle and then gave it the chauffeur-driven option in the tumble dryer. It emerged warm and bouffant.

I saved it up for after my shower the next day when there’d be time to flounce around in my new dressing gown for breakfast. I slinked around the house in it and gaily laughed around the place like a stock image mother surrounded in ridiculous amounts of impractical white.

I lost the run of myself then and allowed the toilet training small boy – who was flittingย around pantsless – sit on my knee. We giggled and tickled like carefree catalogue models. And there the fantasy ended. Suddenly, a fresh stench of shite rent the air. I didn’t even have to look. I knew in my heart of hearts that my beautiful, fluffy, white dressing gown had been christened in only the way a garment of a mother can be. It was as if it was a reminder of my station.

“This is why you can’t have nice things, mam”.

Sigh.

15 thoughts on “Did I tell you the one about my dressing gown?”

  1. noooooo. My worst moment saw my 6 week old rocket poo onto my bare stomach while I changed him. Or maybe it was the day I dropped the kids on the way to work and discovered fresh poo on my skirt, cue detour home to change! It’s the pits. Also, now I’d like a new dressing gown. Mine’s snuggly and fleecy but oh so practical.

  2. Oh no! Hopefully it washes out okay and manages to somehow retain its fluffiness? Maybe? (Knowing full well that I’ve got a top that will never be the same… ๐Ÿ™ )

  3. That is enough to bring tears ๐Ÿ™
    I was only thinking the other day how I would love a new dressing gown too, my own has lost it’s fluffiness but holds fond memories of baby snuggles and baby spew and baby wee……you get the picture ๐Ÿ˜‰

  4. Ah Gahd, no. I suffered a similar fate: sudden explosion on a new towel from a three month old bottom that was placed on the leather sofa for 2 1/2 seconds. You have that moment, that split second of frozen horror before you scramble and start shouting orders “Baby wipes, stat!”.
    Glad your lovely robe made it! Love your blog

    1. That’s the beauty of a leather sofa though, isn’t it? If you move fast enough, you can save the day! Upholstery, not so lucky in the scrubbing front.

      Thank you for the lovely compliment!

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