Hello, World...

Hello World.

I was going through my files this morning and came across these accounts of the fun I had potty training Boy #1. I have two sons (one not yet at that lovely stage, one now through it), and after listening to various mums bemoaning how difficult the whole exercise can be, I thought it might be helpful to share my experiences; not because I handled the whole thing particularly well - or indeed particularly successfully - but just to show that yes, although it can be hell, you will get through it.

So here is a retrospective look at the experience, along with a few other observations on parenting life. And if it works, and people like it, once I've shared the Potty Diaries on-line, maybe I'll continue with them. Or not...


3rd August, 2006

Well here I am again, half-heartedly trying to get Boy #1 potty trained. Why? For the best reasons, obviously; that is, nothing to do with independance on his part (he is nearly 3 after all), or cutting the apron strings etc etc. No, no – I am simply not sure I can take many more pointed questions from family, or one-upmanship from parents of his nursery friends, (‘oh, I thought it would be hell but you know, I showed her’ – note the ‘her’ – ‘the difference between nappies and pants, and she got it the same day’. Well, bully for you....).

So, the Thomas the Tank Engine pants have been reinstated to the active duty list and are now making their way through the washing machine in strict rotation of prefence (Thomas, James, Percy – how apt – and Gordon, if you’re interested). Not sure it will work this time any more than the previous two attempts, which makes me a bad mother, obviously, as all the books say to be positive. 'Positive' is tricky though, when you watch your son stand just outside the loo door and wee on the floor – again....

This evening the potty was used as a delaying tactic to put off bath-time (he knows I don’t want him to wee in the bath – all those student stories from college days must have had some impact on me after all).

After ten minutes of watching him sit down, stand up, settle himself again, then re-check that it’s all tucked in (there are some times it’s better to be a girl, I knew there had to be), then standing up to flush the loo again, I was so desperate for the loo myself that I ended up sitting next to him trying to encourage him to by example.

At one point I got excited that the grunts beside me might result in some action, until I realised that the little gasps of effort were related to his shredding of the loo paper, which in the time I’d taken my eyes off him had gravitated from the cardboard roll to a heap of tissue on the floor. And as I sat there surrounded by drifts of toilet paper and looking at the thread veins on my legs that mysteriously appeared along with Boy#2 (pregnancy is the end, really – even six months after it’s over you keep finding new and exciting calling cards it’s left on your body), I thought back to my pre-child days with some degree of nostalgia.

Self pity is hard to maintain though when your son suddenly makes a ‘shhhhhhhh’ sound to imitate the sound of a non-existent wee (thought he was going to follow up with ‘schweppes please’ at one point), and then announces he’s finished.

Needless to say, the potty was empty.