>> Friday, 27 February 2009
Yesterday, I posted how my younger son is growing up. Leaving the nursery with Boy #2 later that day, one of his teachers asked me the question I was dreading: "So, what are you planning on doing with the potty training situation?"
Now, I know a veiled command when I hear one. And I appreciate that he's the last one in his class not to be potty trained. Even those mothers who, a month ago, were despairing of their little poppets ever getting it, are now smugly bouncing in with them sans nappies.
I muttered some answer about having been waiting for half term to do it, and then not having been able to due to tummy bugs (all true), and then foolishly said "... but we're planning to start tomorrow."
Oh, PM. You fool. Well, you must be. What on earth posessed you to start potty training without having done a stock-take of the wardrobe to ensure that all 5 pairs of Boy #2's trousers were clean and in readiness for use?
Mind you, as it turned out, it would have made no difference.
5 pairs of trousers - today - would not have been ENOUGH!
I have to admit, I have not been the picture of calm today about this. You may have noted the capital letters. They go no way at all - AT ALL - to conveying just how frustrating it is to ask your 3 year old to come and sit on the potty in the bathroom and instead have him wander into the sitting room and wee on the floor 1 minute and 30 seconds later. Three times in succession. Or how absolutely scream-making it is to applaud your son producing a poo on the potty and then 10 minutes after that, have him follow up with one three times the size in his pants.
By the time Husband appeared mid-afternoon I was ready to explode, and the poor man was subjected to a 10 minute rant from me on the subject of Boy #2, willfullness, frustration, laundry, wee, poo, and end of tethers (reaching of) from me.
I did get my revenge in a small way. Once we ran out of clothes, Boy #2 was reduced to wearing a set of Osh Kosh dungarees that some kind soul gave as a gift and which he hates, on the grounds that - even aged 3 - he thinks he looks like a clown. (To be fair, with his round tummy and bustling walk, he does rather).
His comeuppance didn't last long though; to show his contempt for the pierrot look I had inflicted on him, he promptly wee'ed in the dungarees too...
I'm assuming that you won't be surprised to hear that for the first time since my stomach bug at the beginning of the week, I've broken out the Green & Blacks?