We potty trained Big T fairly early and he was dry by 2 years of age. Other than a couple of blips here and there he did exceptionally well and it all went quite smoothly- especially since we were really considerate parents and chose to do it just before going on holiday (thought we’d keep him on his toes). Because this success was of course purely down to our fantastic parenting skills and our approach to ‘training’ him, we knew it would go just as smoothly for each of our subsequent children…
Just before Christmas we decided to begin with Middle F, we weren’t sure he was ready but was nearly 3 and we felt the pressure. Pants donned in the morning alongside hundreds of offerings to use the potty/loo to which he declined all. He then proceeded to wee himself 6 times before lunch. Training over, after all Christmas was looming and clearly presents and food consumption was far more important than getting your child to wear pants.
New year meant new resolutions made on behalf of Middle F. Poor chap had his dummy finally removed (class example of inadequate parenting right there, the ‘pacifier’ used to pacify our child was used for 2 and a half years too long) and the pants emerge again.
All of a sudden we owned a puppy, a real life pup who left piss puddles everywhere, poor lad was even framed for the orange juice spillage until I sniffed it and found it to be a separate offender.
Most unfortunate mishap for me was when he peed on the Minion slippers that were too small and were waiting to be returned to the shop (to be fair though he had a bloody good aim to get it through the bag’s hole at the top so full respect to him for that one).
Most unfortunate mishap for Nanny S was when he peed on her box of Thorntons toffee, luckily the cellophane was still in tact so saved any likely toffee spoilage.
The one which caused the most excitement in the house (by this I mean a chorus of ‘Oooos’ and ‘Ahhhhs’- not that dissimilar to a firework show) was when it was momentarily believed he had peed on Big T’s school book bag, the new one which I had to buy after Big T himself had the car pee mishap a couple of weeks ago with the old one… Fortunately after closer inspection it was discovered that it had survived unscathed and it was merely the plastic chicken beside that had copped it.
We were lucky though that within a few days, Middle F had indeed cracked it with the wees. Notice was given in good time and 99% of the time a wee was deposited in an appropriate receptacle. The whole family particularly rejoiced when he had gone up in the world far enough to christen the car’s pee bottle himself. I think even a ‘Whoop’ or two were involved at that moment in time.
Poos however are a different story…
Poos in the park, poos in the garden, poos pretty much anywhere other than in the toilet. One thing I have learnt however is that it’s vital to house your son’s bits in a snug pair of pants, ones where the leg holes are just slightly toite (not to cause discomfort but merely to create a ‘flush finish’ with the leg). This is paramount in containing the offending shite bombs that are laid. Hands are mainly kept separate, only on one occasion did he come to us presenting a pooie hand and saying ‘I need a wipe’.
I’ve also learnt that it doesn’t matter how organised or ‘on guard’ you think you are, you will never anticipate the arrival of all poos that come your way. One minute you’re minding your own business, trying to watch ’87 stone Barry, unhappy and unemployed with gout in his foot’ and the next you’re involved in operation poo-pants, trying to remove the pants from the legs and over the socks without too much spreadage.
Just to give it all a light hearted edge Middle F loves to place the potty pan on his head, this is mainly done when he thinks he needs a wee but is unable to go, it does however keep me on my toes as you never quite know if it is actually empty or not. Happy days.
Thankfully Big T is very helpful in these sorts of situations, passing wipes etc. when needed, despite comments of great distaste as to what he is witnessing. Huge outcries of “Ewwwww that’s gross! Look at his butt! It stinks!” are dropped here and there, as if I wasn’t aware that the poop I was scraping off his pantage was a little undesirable.
I was relieved the other day when he came downstairs saying he had got himself dressed and was ready to go out. Brilliant! I thought, big help. Then I turned and saw the jazzy little number he had put together out of his wardrobe. Bobby. Dazzler
Still, added a little colour to the day 🙂