Baby D gets christened (left) but ends the day a little less glamorously - check out that padding! (right)
Baby D has renounced the Devil (well, I did, on her behalf). She's officially a C of E christened, (and therefore holy, right?) babe.
Almost 11 months is a bit old to get christened, but considering D had her parents' wedding at four months, we thought we'd space out the massive celebrations so baby Diana doesn't get too used to the splashing out, amazing presies and all-day worship of her by various family members that these sorts of functions entail.
The only thing that worried me about the whole situation was the potential for an explosive dirty nappy as a result of a destructive poo. We still have issues with this on an almost-daily basis (maybe the nappies are too small again?) and I was particularly stressed about it at the church because I had managed to stuff D into a family heirloom, Victorian lace christening gown her grandmother and great aunts and uncles had all been christened in. And I deeply hoped this beautiful garment, having survived multiple centuries and many a baby, wouldn't be ruined by my child.
We made it through the sermon with only a couple of farts and a mild telling off by the vicar for playing too loudly (considering a baby was at the service, I think banging a cup is probably the best-case noise scenario we could hope for) but mid-lunch, post-church service, disaster struck. Thankfully, D had undergone an outfit change by this point, into leggings and a cherry print dress, but unfortunately, in my panic at the church, I ripped one of D's nappies and changed her into a clean one about 10 minutes later for no reason whatsoever.
So when she eventually did poo through all of her clothes and onto her pram cover (she was falling asleep so we put her in there so she could doze), I found myself with no nappies.
(Yes, I have been a mother for almost a year now, but it turns out, being a mum doesn't stop you from being a disorganised mess. It just makes you feel worse about it).
This is normally the point in my day when I'd start crying. On this occasion, with a glass of wine under my belt (we can't all be holy, can we?) and one of D's godmothers by my side, I opted for the other option: hysterical laughter and wild improvisation. My napkin (which I'd brought into the loo to prevent my dress from becoming poo-stained) became D's makeshift nappy, which we stuffed with paper towel on all sides to prevent leakage.
I should mention that although my behaviour was befitting a meal at McDonald's, all of this was actually taking place in the toilets of a very posh members-only club in Mayfair. In front of other members, who thankfully only saw D's sweet smile and failed to notice the bizarre, avant-garde Japanese designer-style hip and butt padding she was sporting.
Inevitably, the napkin nappy was an epic failure, and before the meal had finished baby D had peed on both her grandfather and all over me.
Maybe we all took the holy water thing a bit literally, especially D. But that's the good thing about having a rather spiritual day. Even when you've lost all dignity, you still feel pretty good.