Guess what?
Edie did a poo on the potty yesterday AND one on the big girl's loo at nursery today. She even got a sticker that said so.
But you know what that means don't you? Let me just wipe a tear from my eye as I say it...
There will be no more poo stories ever. I know. I know. I'm almost as distraught about it as you.
But before I pack away the nappies and break out the champagne, I thought it was only right, in light of Edie's, ahem, performances, that I mark the occasion with a final farewell.
I hereby give you the last ever poo story from Maternal Tales.
Last weekend marked my Aunt's 60th Birthday and we were invited along, en famille, to join in with the celebrations, with husband making such a surprise appearance that I think half of those assembled didn't know who he was.
But that aside, let me paint the picture for you. A smart garden party...barbeque...champagne and strawberries. I mean, I'd even considered wearing my new Pucci floor-length dress (ok, so it wasn't really Pucci, but it sure looked like it when I'd bid £5 at the frock exchange the week before). What I did eventually opt for was not important, other than I chose to wear it with flip flops. Now that is important. But as usual, I am digressing. Back to the point. What was it? Oh yes.
Poo.
So, they have a dog, which, it has to be said, had been shipped off to a friend's house for the day, lest it get far too friendly with small children and their even smaller digits. But nonetheless, there is a dog in residence. This is important too.
Anyway, as I'm happily walking around the garden, admiring the roses, enjoying the sunshine, eyeing up the soon-to-be ready food, chatting with family and friends and delighted that my two small children are pre-occupied with other small cousins, I suddenly feel a squelch underfoot. Now as much as I may lead you all to think other things with my often ridiculous behaviour, I am not a stupid woman. I knew it could only mean one thing.
Dog poo.
Dog poo which had managed to squish itself up and over my flip flops, spreading, as it did, right in between my toes. I was mortified. Obviously, I picked up the offending shoe and sniffed it, as is the normal habit, just to make sure it wasn't a mutant mud pie.
It wasn't.
Not one to make a fuss, I ran accross the garden, flip flop in hand, screaming.
"Uncle David - I've just trodden in the most enormous turd that your ruddy mutt has left behind". (I didn't actually use the words 'ruddy mutt', but I can tell you that's what I was thinking).
A rather red-faced Uncle David quickly got to work removing said turd and was even gallant enough to offer to wash my shoe. Of course, I wouldn't have accepted his offer had it not been for the fact that it was his ruddy mutt's turd.
And that, I thought, was that.
Except it wasn't.
"That's strange", said my Aunt. "I could have sworn I'd cleared up all the poos. And the dog has been at a friend's house for a couple of days now."
Closely followed by my own Mother's interjection...
"It didn't look like a dog poo darling."
I was incredulous.
"What do you mean it didn't look like a dog poo? Well if it wasn't a dog poo, then who's poo..."
The true horror of the situation suddenly dawned on me.
"The dog's been gone for two days you say Auntie?" (Judging by the squelch factor alone that was not a two-day old turd. No, it was most certainly very fresh. Very fresh indeed).
I looked over at Edie.
She looked at me.
And I knew.
I just knew.
Showing posts with label potty training. Show all posts
Showing posts with label potty training. Show all posts
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Thursday, 18 June 2009
I have poo on the brain...or is that the tongue...?
For some reason Edie has decided not to have a nap this afternoon, which kind of messes up my schedule a bit seeing as I had put aside her nap time to write a post. Hmmmm. But I have a good idea instead. In the spirit of recycling, I have decided to recycle an old post. Call me a cheat...it was written a while ago - and I think you need to read it...really I do...it's for your own good...
So that was that. Potty emptied. Babies still sleeping. Toddlers demanding more biscuits (and getting them). Mummies still chatting. It was a great morning. Great, that was, until the moment of departure came. Now for two toddlers to play happily together, a certain amount of mess has to be made. That's inevitable. But that doesn't send shockwaves through me in any way. A ten-minute tidy-up and no one need ever know that the bedroom was a disaster zone. But this time it was, how shall I put it, different. It wasn't the scale of the mess which surprised me, or the extent to which two little children had been able to run riot. No, it was this simple fact. Chocolate biscuits do not mix well with toys or bedding or carpets, or rugs, or white walls. Somehow, whilst I was happily chit-chatting away in the other room, I had managed to completely ignore the fact that almost a whole packet of crumbly biscuits with melting potential had been taken away by two two-year-olds. I mean what was I thinking? I'll tell you what I was thinking. I was thinking that just a little bit of peace and quiet is worth a ten-minute tidy up at the end of the day. But on this occasion I was wrong. Oh so wrong.
After ten minutes of crawling around on my hands and knees trying to tidy up the toys which hadn't been smeared in chocolate or crumbs, I made it to the potty corner. I don't know what had happened, but it looked as though either one or both of the children had been eating whilst sitting on the potty - like a man reading the Sunday papers on his 'throne' - and the whole surrounding area was covered with chocolate biscuit crumbs...or so I thought. And before you pass judgement - please remember - I was on a diet (and I just hate wasting food). So what did I do? I started eating the chocolate biscuits crumbs of course. Aside from the covering of tiny particles which I later had to vacuum up, there were a few big pieces of biscuit lying around. So piece by piece I put them in my mouth, pleased with myself for not only tidying up quickly, but doing it in a very efficient manner. But hold on, that doesn't taste like chocolate. Does it? No, it can't be. Can it? Just one more chew to make sure. Oh no. It really is what I think it is. It's POO. Aaaaaarrrrrggghhhh. And I'm eating it. Of course, I rushed straight to the bathroom where I spat my mouthful of biscuit and poo into the sink and quickly filled my mouth with mouthwash and water and mouthwash and water. Over and over again. But I'm telling you this - however many times I washed my mouth out and scrubbed and brushed my teeth, I still couldn't rid myself of the taste of poo. I could smell it. I could feel it. I knew it was there invading my every sense.
When I went to bed that evening, a good ten hours after the 'incident' I could still taste it somewhere deep in the back of my throat. And as I lay there thinking about it (how could I even try to think about anything else) it dawned on me why it was so horrific. It wasn't that I had eaten poo, as much as that in itself was hideous. But it was that it wasn't even my own child's poo. It was Roxy's poo. And she wasn't my own. Poo is bad enough when it comes from the ones you adore, but when it's someone else's child's poo, then that really does take the biscuit. And as for potty training Edie, well maybe I can leave it just a little bit longer...
So, just sit back and relax...A post from back in March...Happy reading!
The time has almost come. I'm thinking of potty training Edie. Although if the little 'accident' on the stairs yesterday is an example of what's to come, then I may delay it even further (despite scrubbing for a good half hour, the stains are still pretty evident). Hmmm. Funnily enough it brings to mind an incident which happened a couple of years ago during Renée's 'potty training period'. A friend had come round for a coffee with her two children. Both our youngest were babies so they slept whilst the two eldest played in Renée's bedroom. I was breast feeding at the time (and possibly on a diet too if my memory serves me well)...so let's just say I was pretty hungry and the chocolate biscuits my friend brought round were slightly too tempting to refuse.
So that's the scene. Two Mummies chit-chatting on the sofa...two babies asleep...two toddlers playing happily in another room. What could possibly go wrong? Well, as it happens, quite a lot.
No sooner had the two toddlers spied the packet of chocolate biscuits, they were upon us, demanding that they too be given a share of the goodies. Keen to carry on chatting with my friend, I dismissed the two girls with a hastily given supply of biscuits and the promise of more if they played quietly together for at least ten minutes. Chit chat chit chat chit chat. All was going according to plan until Renée walked into the sitting room clutching the potty...'Mummy, Roxy done caca' (that's French for poo poo just in case you were wondering). 'Right - thanks darling. Lovely.' I took the potty and handed it to the other Mother (it was her child's poo after all). I like to think I'm a great hostess but I only deal with other children's poo if it's a dire emergency. This, as it happens, was not.So that was that. Potty emptied. Babies still sleeping. Toddlers demanding more biscuits (and getting them). Mummies still chatting. It was a great morning. Great, that was, until the moment of departure came. Now for two toddlers to play happily together, a certain amount of mess has to be made. That's inevitable. But that doesn't send shockwaves through me in any way. A ten-minute tidy-up and no one need ever know that the bedroom was a disaster zone. But this time it was, how shall I put it, different. It wasn't the scale of the mess which surprised me, or the extent to which two little children had been able to run riot. No, it was this simple fact. Chocolate biscuits do not mix well with toys or bedding or carpets, or rugs, or white walls. Somehow, whilst I was happily chit-chatting away in the other room, I had managed to completely ignore the fact that almost a whole packet of crumbly biscuits with melting potential had been taken away by two two-year-olds. I mean what was I thinking? I'll tell you what I was thinking. I was thinking that just a little bit of peace and quiet is worth a ten-minute tidy up at the end of the day. But on this occasion I was wrong. Oh so wrong.
After ten minutes of crawling around on my hands and knees trying to tidy up the toys which hadn't been smeared in chocolate or crumbs, I made it to the potty corner. I don't know what had happened, but it looked as though either one or both of the children had been eating whilst sitting on the potty - like a man reading the Sunday papers on his 'throne' - and the whole surrounding area was covered with chocolate biscuit crumbs...or so I thought. And before you pass judgement - please remember - I was on a diet (and I just hate wasting food). So what did I do? I started eating the chocolate biscuits crumbs of course. Aside from the covering of tiny particles which I later had to vacuum up, there were a few big pieces of biscuit lying around. So piece by piece I put them in my mouth, pleased with myself for not only tidying up quickly, but doing it in a very efficient manner. But hold on, that doesn't taste like chocolate. Does it? No, it can't be. Can it? Just one more chew to make sure. Oh no. It really is what I think it is. It's POO. Aaaaaarrrrrggghhhh. And I'm eating it. Of course, I rushed straight to the bathroom where I spat my mouthful of biscuit and poo into the sink and quickly filled my mouth with mouthwash and water and mouthwash and water. Over and over again. But I'm telling you this - however many times I washed my mouth out and scrubbed and brushed my teeth, I still couldn't rid myself of the taste of poo. I could smell it. I could feel it. I knew it was there invading my every sense.
When I went to bed that evening, a good ten hours after the 'incident' I could still taste it somewhere deep in the back of my throat. And as I lay there thinking about it (how could I even try to think about anything else) it dawned on me why it was so horrific. It wasn't that I had eaten poo, as much as that in itself was hideous. But it was that it wasn't even my own child's poo. It was Roxy's poo. And she wasn't my own. Poo is bad enough when it comes from the ones you adore, but when it's someone else's child's poo, then that really does take the biscuit. And as for potty training Edie, well maybe I can leave it just a little bit longer...
Monday, 1 June 2009
Poo-related karma
So we're finally back on South-Coast chalk and if the 5-hour car journey in the blazing heat is an example of what happens when we leave home, then I may never set foot outside the front door ever again. I'm sure it's something to do with karma and the cosmic universe - you know what I mean - the good times only last so long before you're made to pay. We had a truly fantastic week in Norfolk - Good food, sunshine, plenty of outdoor activities and no stresses or strains of normal day to day life with two small children (apart from lack of sleep - but I'm saving that for another post). In short, a little bit or R & R. But in the space of 5 very loooooooooooooooong hours, it was pay back time. One hideously painful hour for every fun-filled day we'd just had.
Let me explain in a little more detail. Now I may, or may not have mentioned that Edie is in the middle of being potty-trained. If you are a regular reader of this blog, then you'll know that we've had a few...ahem...problems in this very area. But we are making progress. She's now out of nappies in the day and using her potty and the 'big girls' loo' for her number ones. Hardly any accidents. Number twos, however, are slightly more miss than hit, unfortunately for all involved. So that'll be unfortunately for me then... And as you can imagine, given this background information, a 5-hour car journey could provide a number of, how shall I put this?...Rather indelicate situations.
Could and did.
Add to this the fact that the one day we chose to drive 200 miles home conveniently turned out to be the hottest day of the year...and when you're stuck inside a car, with or without indelicate situations, it's not very pleasant at all.
I won't bore you with the trivial details of 5 separate wee wee stops in the first hour, all of which required pulling in to a side lane, extracting small children from car seats, holding them aloft, legs akimbo (parents of boys may not be able to empathise here), trying desperately not to let that small trickle of wee (which did occur to me half-way through each and every procedure that it was hardly worth stopping for in the first place), trickle dangerously close to clothes, or worse still, bare feet in flip flops, whilst at the same time, trying to remain inconspicuous to passing traffic.
Like I said, I won't bore you with the details.
The part about the turd though, I will have to disclose, because, well, I owe it to you...You can thank me later.
So, just as we'd finally navigated our way through the small lanes that make up most of North Norfolk and made it on to the motorway, I heard the words that I was praying I wouldn't hear.
'Mummy I need a ca ca' (That's a poo to you and me).
Strangely enough there was no inconspicuous country lane to pull over into. There was, however, a potty. A kind of 'chair' potty with an insert part for the seat which I couldn't recommend highly enough for those of you thinking of potty training your children. I'm not sure my reccommendation would stretch as far as using it on a car journey though...
Somehow I managed to pull Edie out of her car seat - don't worry - husband was around and he was driving - you didn't think I was that crazy did you? Anyway, I plonked her on the potty - inbetween the two car seats. And, unbelieveably given the circumstances, she managed to produce a rather fine looking specimen. Now is it just me, or has anyone else ever wondered how a relatively small child can produce a rather adult-looking turd? Maybe this is too much information. I'll stop...
In my excitement at seeing my youngest child perform under stressful conditions, I must have taken my eye off the ball for one milisecond too long. In truth, I think I was reaching for the wipes between my feet. Excuses aside, I took my eye off Edie long enough for her to take the insert part out of the potty and offer it to me, a look of pride etched on her still baby face. I almost had a second to share her pride, but at that precise moment (it was karma I tell you), the car (not husband of course) decided to apply the breaks a little too hard and the rather largish, rather sticky, exceedingly smelly, quite repulsive, in fact, turd, ended up being deposited halfway between the gear stick and the dashboard, a little towards my side.
I am, if nothing, fairly practical and not particularly squeamish...but this, was not how I'd wanted to spend my car journey. In the one second it had taken for Edie's poo to land next to me, all the country walks, barbeques, tractor rides and relaxation had been erased. I could have cried. Instead, I managed to pick up the offending object which had now, unfortunately, become objects and stashed them away inside a plastic bag. I'm electing not to mention how many wipes were used in the clear up or how long it actually took. Suffice to say, I'm happy to do the driving next time...
And a perfectly-timed text from a friend was just about enough to send me over the edge...
'Hope you're enjoying the sun. We're in the back garden with the paddling pool out'.
I looked at the plastic bag, with it's revolting smell emanating through the plastic fibres and filling up the car in the 30 degrees heat and decided to laugh. It was, after all, just another day in the life of a parent.
As for the turd, I can't actually remember what became of it...
Luckily I don't have a 'proper' job to go to, or I could follow More Than Just a Mother's rather unfortunate example and find myself taking it to work with me. I'll be thankful for small mercies then...
Let me explain in a little more detail. Now I may, or may not have mentioned that Edie is in the middle of being potty-trained. If you are a regular reader of this blog, then you'll know that we've had a few...ahem...problems in this very area. But we are making progress. She's now out of nappies in the day and using her potty and the 'big girls' loo' for her number ones. Hardly any accidents. Number twos, however, are slightly more miss than hit, unfortunately for all involved. So that'll be unfortunately for me then... And as you can imagine, given this background information, a 5-hour car journey could provide a number of, how shall I put this?...Rather indelicate situations.
Could and did.
Add to this the fact that the one day we chose to drive 200 miles home conveniently turned out to be the hottest day of the year...and when you're stuck inside a car, with or without indelicate situations, it's not very pleasant at all.
I won't bore you with the trivial details of 5 separate wee wee stops in the first hour, all of which required pulling in to a side lane, extracting small children from car seats, holding them aloft, legs akimbo (parents of boys may not be able to empathise here), trying desperately not to let that small trickle of wee (which did occur to me half-way through each and every procedure that it was hardly worth stopping for in the first place), trickle dangerously close to clothes, or worse still, bare feet in flip flops, whilst at the same time, trying to remain inconspicuous to passing traffic.
Like I said, I won't bore you with the details.
The part about the turd though, I will have to disclose, because, well, I owe it to you...You can thank me later.
So, just as we'd finally navigated our way through the small lanes that make up most of North Norfolk and made it on to the motorway, I heard the words that I was praying I wouldn't hear.
'Mummy I need a ca ca' (That's a poo to you and me).
Strangely enough there was no inconspicuous country lane to pull over into. There was, however, a potty. A kind of 'chair' potty with an insert part for the seat which I couldn't recommend highly enough for those of you thinking of potty training your children. I'm not sure my reccommendation would stretch as far as using it on a car journey though...
Somehow I managed to pull Edie out of her car seat - don't worry - husband was around and he was driving - you didn't think I was that crazy did you? Anyway, I plonked her on the potty - inbetween the two car seats. And, unbelieveably given the circumstances, she managed to produce a rather fine looking specimen. Now is it just me, or has anyone else ever wondered how a relatively small child can produce a rather adult-looking turd? Maybe this is too much information. I'll stop...
In my excitement at seeing my youngest child perform under stressful conditions, I must have taken my eye off the ball for one milisecond too long. In truth, I think I was reaching for the wipes between my feet. Excuses aside, I took my eye off Edie long enough for her to take the insert part out of the potty and offer it to me, a look of pride etched on her still baby face. I almost had a second to share her pride, but at that precise moment (it was karma I tell you), the car (not husband of course) decided to apply the breaks a little too hard and the rather largish, rather sticky, exceedingly smelly, quite repulsive, in fact, turd, ended up being deposited halfway between the gear stick and the dashboard, a little towards my side.
I am, if nothing, fairly practical and not particularly squeamish...but this, was not how I'd wanted to spend my car journey. In the one second it had taken for Edie's poo to land next to me, all the country walks, barbeques, tractor rides and relaxation had been erased. I could have cried. Instead, I managed to pick up the offending object which had now, unfortunately, become objects and stashed them away inside a plastic bag. I'm electing not to mention how many wipes were used in the clear up or how long it actually took. Suffice to say, I'm happy to do the driving next time...
And a perfectly-timed text from a friend was just about enough to send me over the edge...
'Hope you're enjoying the sun. We're in the back garden with the paddling pool out'.
I looked at the plastic bag, with it's revolting smell emanating through the plastic fibres and filling up the car in the 30 degrees heat and decided to laugh. It was, after all, just another day in the life of a parent.
As for the turd, I can't actually remember what became of it...
Luckily I don't have a 'proper' job to go to, or I could follow More Than Just a Mother's rather unfortunate example and find myself taking it to work with me. I'll be thankful for small mercies then...
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
She's just not ready!
Why is it that Edie wholeheartedly refuses to be potty-trained? Could it be that she actually likes the feeling of being warm and wet and ever-so slightly smelly? Does she delight in having a hard piece of poo squidged right in between her bottom cheeks? Does it make her giggle and laugh that she's the one in control and not I? Or is it that she's just a lazy little monkey and can't be bothered to apply herself? Well if she's anything like her Mother, then the answers right there (the lazy part...please!!) Or worse still, could it be that she is ready and I am not?
But this is the thing. Regardless of the reasons behind it all, I have to say that I'm beginning to get a little embarrassed. It's been there for a while, but these feelings of having to justify her love of nappies surfaced again yesterday after a comment made by another Mother (always the way). But it wasn't rude. It wasn't even malicious. All it was, was this.
"So, Edie...when is Mummy going to put you in big girl panties then?"
I couldn't help but go red, as much as I tried not to. And the more I tried to contain it, the worse it got until before I knew it I was having a full-on hot flush and looking for the nearest exit whilst spluttering something along the lines of,
"Well, we...we... have tried. She just refuses to do it. I just don't think....well, I just don't think that she's quite....er...ready yet."
At which point I got even more embarrassed at the rather lame excuses and had to scuttle away, clutching a rather large nappy-clad Edie.
Edie's a big girl, you see, so I suppose she looks older than she is (which is almost two-and-a-half in case you were wondering). She could pass for 3, as long as she doesn't open her mouth...Oh bless you Edie. I love you and I love everything about you.
But when I compare her to her sister (something which I know I shouldn't do but I can't help myself), I just don't remember having any such problems. The Grandparents, of course, urged me to put Renée on the potty before she was 2, but I knew she wasn't ready. Apart from running away and hiding each time the potty was 'subtley' produced, we were due to move house and have a new baby, so I thought it was best to leave it. And I was right. By two-and-a-half, with a new baby sister and an even newer house, she was out of nappies, day and night. There were a few accidents, of course, but only when she was particularly tired or engrossed in something. But the bottom line was, she knew what to do.
With Edie it's not quite the same. Believe me, I have tried. We've had days of wearing pants; pants which become sodden every 20 minutes or so, such is her lack of bladder control. We've had wee wees (or 'pee pees' as we call them) on the potty and subsequent star charts, but two minutes later, after much cadjoling and reminding, there'll be a pee pee on the floor and a poo poo (or 'caca') on the stairs.
And then I think, well is it me? Maybe she is ready and I'm the one who's not. So when I woke up this morning I thought 'This is it. Today's the day. No nappies. I'm just going to deal with the pain that is wet, soggy, smelly pants. I'm going to persevere until she's well and truly out of nappies.' And do you know what? She produced a pee-pee on the potty, we danced around in delight, we put a gold sticker on her chart and then dressed her in pants and trousers. Ten minutes later, pee pee everywhere. None in the potty. Not even near it. No mention of the fact that she had even needed it, or that she was soaking wet. I just happened to notice a rather dark stain on her trousers.
Ok, deep breaths. I wasn't going to throw in the towel just yet. New pants. New trousers. Another explanation of what to do should she feel the 'urge'.
Then a dilemna. Husband wants to take her for a bike ride along the seafront. "Can we put a nappy on her?" He asks.
"No", I reply. "This is it. She's going to learn. She's just done a pee pee (albeit in her pants), so she should be ok for a while. And if she does have an accident, then take some spare clothes and change her."
So that was that. Deep breaths again. Fingers crossed and a little conversation before departure that went something like this.
"Edie - if you need a pee pee, you must tell Papa."
"Ok Mummy. I know."
"Do you need a pee pee now?"
"No Mummy."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes Mummy."
"And if you need a pee pee, what do you do?"
"I tell Papa."
"That's right darling. Good girl."
And before she's even on the bike, pee pee. Everywhere.
Aaargh.
So this is it. I just don't think she's ready. I'm ready. But she's not. It's as simple as that. I know that she'll 'get it' eventually, I just wish she'd hurry up. There are only so many times I can justify it before I shout at someone, red-faced and temperature rising.
"SHE'S JUST NOT READY. NOW LEAVE ME ALONE."
But this is the thing. Regardless of the reasons behind it all, I have to say that I'm beginning to get a little embarrassed. It's been there for a while, but these feelings of having to justify her love of nappies surfaced again yesterday after a comment made by another Mother (always the way). But it wasn't rude. It wasn't even malicious. All it was, was this.
"So, Edie...when is Mummy going to put you in big girl panties then?"
I couldn't help but go red, as much as I tried not to. And the more I tried to contain it, the worse it got until before I knew it I was having a full-on hot flush and looking for the nearest exit whilst spluttering something along the lines of,
"Well, we...we... have tried. She just refuses to do it. I just don't think....well, I just don't think that she's quite....er...ready yet."
At which point I got even more embarrassed at the rather lame excuses and had to scuttle away, clutching a rather large nappy-clad Edie.
Edie's a big girl, you see, so I suppose she looks older than she is (which is almost two-and-a-half in case you were wondering). She could pass for 3, as long as she doesn't open her mouth...Oh bless you Edie. I love you and I love everything about you.
But when I compare her to her sister (something which I know I shouldn't do but I can't help myself), I just don't remember having any such problems. The Grandparents, of course, urged me to put Renée on the potty before she was 2, but I knew she wasn't ready. Apart from running away and hiding each time the potty was 'subtley' produced, we were due to move house and have a new baby, so I thought it was best to leave it. And I was right. By two-and-a-half, with a new baby sister and an even newer house, she was out of nappies, day and night. There were a few accidents, of course, but only when she was particularly tired or engrossed in something. But the bottom line was, she knew what to do.
With Edie it's not quite the same. Believe me, I have tried. We've had days of wearing pants; pants which become sodden every 20 minutes or so, such is her lack of bladder control. We've had wee wees (or 'pee pees' as we call them) on the potty and subsequent star charts, but two minutes later, after much cadjoling and reminding, there'll be a pee pee on the floor and a poo poo (or 'caca') on the stairs.
And then I think, well is it me? Maybe she is ready and I'm the one who's not. So when I woke up this morning I thought 'This is it. Today's the day. No nappies. I'm just going to deal with the pain that is wet, soggy, smelly pants. I'm going to persevere until she's well and truly out of nappies.' And do you know what? She produced a pee-pee on the potty, we danced around in delight, we put a gold sticker on her chart and then dressed her in pants and trousers. Ten minutes later, pee pee everywhere. None in the potty. Not even near it. No mention of the fact that she had even needed it, or that she was soaking wet. I just happened to notice a rather dark stain on her trousers.
Ok, deep breaths. I wasn't going to throw in the towel just yet. New pants. New trousers. Another explanation of what to do should she feel the 'urge'.
Then a dilemna. Husband wants to take her for a bike ride along the seafront. "Can we put a nappy on her?" He asks.
"No", I reply. "This is it. She's going to learn. She's just done a pee pee (albeit in her pants), so she should be ok for a while. And if she does have an accident, then take some spare clothes and change her."
So that was that. Deep breaths again. Fingers crossed and a little conversation before departure that went something like this.
"Edie - if you need a pee pee, you must tell Papa."
"Ok Mummy. I know."
"Do you need a pee pee now?"
"No Mummy."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes Mummy."
"And if you need a pee pee, what do you do?"
"I tell Papa."
"That's right darling. Good girl."
And before she's even on the bike, pee pee. Everywhere.
Aaargh.
So this is it. I just don't think she's ready. I'm ready. But she's not. It's as simple as that. I know that she'll 'get it' eventually, I just wish she'd hurry up. There are only so many times I can justify it before I shout at someone, red-faced and temperature rising.
"SHE'S JUST NOT READY. NOW LEAVE ME ALONE."
Monday, 9 March 2009
This takes the biscuit
The time has almost come. I'm thinking of potty training Edie. Although if the little 'accident' on the stairs yesterday is an example of what's to come, then I may delay it even further (despite scrubbing for a good half hour, the stains are still pretty evident). Hmmm. Funnily enough it brings to mind an incident which happened a couple of years ago during Renée's 'potty training period'. A friend had come round for a coffee with her two children. Both our youngest were babies so they slept whilst the two eldest played in Renée's bedroom. I was breast feeding at the time (and possibly on a diet too if my memory serves me well)...so let's just say I was pretty hungry and the chocolate biscuits my friend brought round were slightly too tempting to refuse. So that's the scene. Two Mummies chit-chatting on the sofa...two babies asleep...two toddlers playing happily in another room. What could possibly go wrong? Well, as it happens, quite a lot.
No sooner had the two toddlers spied the packet of chocolate biscuits, they were upon us, demanding that they too be given a share of the goodies. Keen to carry on chatting with my friend, I dismissed the two girls with a hastily given supply of biscuits and the promise of more if they played quietly together for at least ten minutes. Chit chat chit chat chit chat. All was going according to plan until Renée walked into the sitting room clutching the potty...'Mummy, Roxy done caca' (that's French for poo poo just in case you were wondering). 'Right - thanks darling. Lovely.' I took the potty and handed it to the other Mother (it was her child's poo after all). I like to think I'm a great hostess but I only deal with other children's poo if it's a dire emergency. This, as it happens, was not.
So that was that. Potty emptied. Babies still sleeping. Toddlers demanding more biscuits (and getting them). Mummies still chatting. It was a great morning. Great, that was, until the moment of departure came. Now for two toddlers to play happily together, a certain amount of mess has to be made. That's inevitable. But that doesn't send shockwaves through me in any way. A ten-minute tidy-up and no one need ever know that the bedroom was a disaster zone. But this time it was, how shall I put it, different. It wasn't the scale of the mess which surprised me, or the extent to which two little children had been able to run riot. No, it was this simple fact. Chocolate biscuits do not mix well with toys or bedding or carpets, or rugs, or white walls. Somehow, whilst I was happily chit-chatting away in the other room, I had managed to completely ignore the fact that almost a whole packet of crumbly biscuits with melting potential had been taken away by two two-year-olds. I mean what was I thinking? I'll tell you what I was thinking. I was thinking that just a little bit of peace and quiet is worth a ten-minute tidy up at the end of the day. But on this occasion I was wrong. Oh so wrong.
After ten minutes of crawling around on my hands and knees trying to tidy up the toys which hadn't been smeared in chocolate or crumbs, I made it to the potty corner. I don't know what had happened, but it looked as though either one or both of the children had been eating whilst sitting on the potty - like a man reading the Sunday papers on his 'throne' - and the whole surrounding area was covered with chocolate biscuit crumbs...or so I thought. And before you pass judgement - please remember - I was on a diet (and I just hate wasting food). So what did I do? I started eating the chocolate biscuits crumbs of course. Aside from the covering of tiny particles which I later had to vacuum up, there were a few big pieces of biscuit lying around. So piece by piece I put them in my mouth, pleased with myself for not only tidying up quickly, but doing it in a very efficient manner. But hold on, that doesn't taste like chocolate. Does it? No, it can't be. Can it? Just one more chew to make sure. Oh no. It really is what I think it is. It's POO. Aaaaaarrrrrggghhhh. And I'm eating it. Of course, I rushed straight to the bathroom where I spat my mouthful of biscuit and poo into the sink and quickly filled my mouth with mouthwash and water and mouthwash and water. Over and over again. But I'm telling you this - however many times I washed my mouth out and scrubbed and brushed my teeth, I still couldn't rid myself of the taste of poo. I could smell it. I could feel it. I knew it was there invading my every sense.
When I went to bed that evening, a good ten hours after the 'incident' I could still taste it somewhere deep in the back of my throat. And as I lay there thinking about it (how could I even try to think about anything else) it dawned on me why it was so horrific. It wasn't that I had eaten poo, as much as that in itself was hideous. But it was that it wasn't even my own child's poo. It was Roxy's poo. And she wasn't my own. Poo is bad enough when it comes from the ones you adore, but when it's someone else's child's poo, then that really does take the biscuit. And as for potty training Edie, well maybe I can leave it just a little bit longer...
No sooner had the two toddlers spied the packet of chocolate biscuits, they were upon us, demanding that they too be given a share of the goodies. Keen to carry on chatting with my friend, I dismissed the two girls with a hastily given supply of biscuits and the promise of more if they played quietly together for at least ten minutes. Chit chat chit chat chit chat. All was going according to plan until Renée walked into the sitting room clutching the potty...'Mummy, Roxy done caca' (that's French for poo poo just in case you were wondering). 'Right - thanks darling. Lovely.' I took the potty and handed it to the other Mother (it was her child's poo after all). I like to think I'm a great hostess but I only deal with other children's poo if it's a dire emergency. This, as it happens, was not.
So that was that. Potty emptied. Babies still sleeping. Toddlers demanding more biscuits (and getting them). Mummies still chatting. It was a great morning. Great, that was, until the moment of departure came. Now for two toddlers to play happily together, a certain amount of mess has to be made. That's inevitable. But that doesn't send shockwaves through me in any way. A ten-minute tidy-up and no one need ever know that the bedroom was a disaster zone. But this time it was, how shall I put it, different. It wasn't the scale of the mess which surprised me, or the extent to which two little children had been able to run riot. No, it was this simple fact. Chocolate biscuits do not mix well with toys or bedding or carpets, or rugs, or white walls. Somehow, whilst I was happily chit-chatting away in the other room, I had managed to completely ignore the fact that almost a whole packet of crumbly biscuits with melting potential had been taken away by two two-year-olds. I mean what was I thinking? I'll tell you what I was thinking. I was thinking that just a little bit of peace and quiet is worth a ten-minute tidy up at the end of the day. But on this occasion I was wrong. Oh so wrong.
After ten minutes of crawling around on my hands and knees trying to tidy up the toys which hadn't been smeared in chocolate or crumbs, I made it to the potty corner. I don't know what had happened, but it looked as though either one or both of the children had been eating whilst sitting on the potty - like a man reading the Sunday papers on his 'throne' - and the whole surrounding area was covered with chocolate biscuit crumbs...or so I thought. And before you pass judgement - please remember - I was on a diet (and I just hate wasting food). So what did I do? I started eating the chocolate biscuits crumbs of course. Aside from the covering of tiny particles which I later had to vacuum up, there were a few big pieces of biscuit lying around. So piece by piece I put them in my mouth, pleased with myself for not only tidying up quickly, but doing it in a very efficient manner. But hold on, that doesn't taste like chocolate. Does it? No, it can't be. Can it? Just one more chew to make sure. Oh no. It really is what I think it is. It's POO. Aaaaaarrrrrggghhhh. And I'm eating it. Of course, I rushed straight to the bathroom where I spat my mouthful of biscuit and poo into the sink and quickly filled my mouth with mouthwash and water and mouthwash and water. Over and over again. But I'm telling you this - however many times I washed my mouth out and scrubbed and brushed my teeth, I still couldn't rid myself of the taste of poo. I could smell it. I could feel it. I knew it was there invading my every sense.
When I went to bed that evening, a good ten hours after the 'incident' I could still taste it somewhere deep in the back of my throat. And as I lay there thinking about it (how could I even try to think about anything else) it dawned on me why it was so horrific. It wasn't that I had eaten poo, as much as that in itself was hideous. But it was that it wasn't even my own child's poo. It was Roxy's poo. And she wasn't my own. Poo is bad enough when it comes from the ones you adore, but when it's someone else's child's poo, then that really does take the biscuit. And as for potty training Edie, well maybe I can leave it just a little bit longer...
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