Potty mouth

It's that time again at Chez Bobs; the time that strikes fear into the heart of parents worldwide and that brings tears to our eyes, of both pride and frustration. I do, of course, mean potty training time. The Daughter was dry by the time she was two and a half, with barely a puddle to clean up if my memory serves me right. (Although I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday so she could actually have walked round the house dribbling wee like an incontinent old woman and I may have lost it in the depths of my mind). She was a different kettle of fish to her brother though, with brilliant speech by 18months old, and the ability to dress herself (of a sort) by 2 and a half. But the Boychild has not been so blessed. Bless him, he's the world's biggest sweetie but - shhhhhhh *whispers*he's not very bright*whispers*. I say this with nothing but love in my heart and in the hope that he won't end up being a shoplifter or even worse, on a reality tv show. He was late crawling, walking and talking, and has only very recently been open to the idea of using the 'potpot' for something other than standing in or wearing as a hat. Mummy, in her infinite wisdom, bought him a potty in the shape of a car which was supposed to inspire him to use it (along with tiny pants covered in pictures of diggers). What it actually did was encourage him to a) push it along the floor both scratching the laminate flooring and ruching up the lounge carpet as he went and b) use it to store other cars in.
Potty training began in earnest a few days ago when I caught him mid poo and launched him onto the car-pot like lightning. The Daughter and I stood applauding him in support and a choclate button was duly given as reward. I didn't need to do this with The Daughter, but I figure Pavlov knew what he was doing with his dogs, and what better incentive to empty your bowels than the promise of chocolate? I'd go for that. Only Boychild misunderstood the sentence "Everytime you wee or poo on your potty you get a chocolate button". He climbed onto Car-pot, nappy and jeans still firmly on, and made all the right noises "Nnnnnnng...coming!" and did whatever he did in the safety of his super-absorbent core. That is, if he did anything at all. Maybe I've got him all wrong and the Boychild is actually too clever for his own good!