Wednesday, 10 October 2012

I'll have a Pee please Bob...

I hate potty training!!!!!!!!!!! If ever I feel even remotely broody, the thought of having to guide yet another piss-happy toddler through this necessary torture is enough to make me get booked in to have my tubes tied! My memory has no doubt been dulled over time, but I swear it wasn't this lengthy and arduous with The Daughter. I never had to chisel poo off tiny pairs of peppa pig pants, whilst gagging and hissing "Jesus" through gritted teeth. I didn't have to leave the house with a binbag full of spare pants and trousers in case of accidents. So why, for the love of god, WHY is it so difficult this time round?

Yes, I know they say boys do things later than girls, and this has proved to be the case with most milestones so far - walking, talking, stopping trying to stick fingers up the cats bums. But I'm started to have this image that fleetingly pops into my head, of him leaning over the bench in his GCSE science class, his teacher asking suspiciously "Are you pooing Charlie?" and him replying sheepishly "No, just trumping". It really does look like I'll have an un-potty trained teenager. And lets face it, whipping his trousers and pants down every five minutes to see if the turtles head is out, well - that'll be more than weird. But that's what I have to do now. Every 25-30 minutes, I drag him to the toilet to make sure he's wee'd and therefore lessening the chance of a urine soaked settee or carpet. And he seems to be getting the hang of it (apart from today when he was literally two yards from his potty and just stood looking at me with a damp patch spreading over the front of his trousers). But that boy point blank refuses to poo on the toilet and it's driving me mad. Any parent will recognise the 'Having a poo' stance and facial expression. He stands there, with his tiny little posterior sticking out, trying to pretend he's just casually leaning on the table playing. "Do you need to poo?" I repeat, parrot-like at him, knowing full well he'll try and make out he's "just trumping". Since when has trumping left you with a little tail sticking out the back of your trousers, I'll never know.

Several times I've almost cracked and retreated, sobbing, to the nappy bag. But I know I can't go back now we're on this long and winding road. We must soldier on, armed with multipacks of pants with diggers and ambulances on, in the hope of one day reaching our destination. And I'll tell you something, I'm putting 'Potty training a small boy' under the Achievements section of my CV, because if I can do this - I can do anything!

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