A random selection of lessons learned over the last 24 hours...
1. Do not assume that because you pick up Boy #2 from nursery with a full complement of clean trousers and pants that you have reached a successful end to the matter of Potty Training. It is only 'Day 7' (Geordie accent please, as usual), and as such it seems he is legally required to wait until you arrive at friend's house for the Boys to have a playdate with her two daughters before (wait for it....) parking a fatty in his pants. Again. (Sorry Bush Mummy, I know that expression is yours, but it makes me laugh each time I write it, and god do I need to laugh about this).
2. Do not for a moment think that because when you left the house for the Christmas break you left tempting bowls of mouse poison scattered artistically across the floor, the little varmints will actually have eaten them.
3. A few days after your return from that break, if you think you hear a mouse when you are alone in the house, during the day? You probably have heard a mouse.
4. It is a good idea to have a husband home when you hear the noise again in the evening, because good god, that sounds like a big one. (Do these creatures carry tools or something? I swear the one I heard last night was using a pneumatic drill as it tried to break through the door of the office where I had, coward-like, trapped it before screaming like a girl and running to Husband for help.)
5. Mousetraps may be gross. But they work.
6. If you do decide to use the Box of Death, it is a good thing for Husband to be home first thing the following morning to dispose of the evidence. (He tried to get me to look at the damn thing to see it wasn't that big. I did have a quick glance - but only to confirm that it was, in fact, wearing a tool belt and a hard hat).
6. That amazingly sometimes persistence does pay off. The editor of one of those free magazines (not one that I had previously mentioned, obviously, but a different one, I swear it!) has accepted a piece of my writing. Hurrah!
Now, it's Boy #2's birthday tomorrow. This time 3 years ago his big head was stuck, and I was mooing like a cow. Long live drugs and emergency c-sections, I say. But seriously, to all those who think natural child-birth is the way to go and that there are far too many interventions nowadays, I applaud the sentiment, but ultimately all I cared about was having a healthy baby. In the end there was only one way to make sure that happened, so we took it. And the result is our beautiful Boy #2; smart, loving, independent, stubborn, funny, bright, not yet potty-trained, and a light in my life.
Also? If I think about lessons learned, I have to say, having been through the birth process twice, and having used both the front door (Boy #1) and the sunroof (Boy #2), that the first experience made me appreciate being able to sit down after the second time I gave birth like you wouldn't believe...
Thursday, 8 January 2009
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
Snapshots #3
So much to tell, so little time.
(Actually, scratch that. It's Day 6 of potty training Boy #2 - I'm going nowhere. Other than trips from one end of the flat to unload the washing machine and to the other to mop the floor behind Boy #2, I've got nothing but time...)
First up, it's Carnival Time again. Check out Single Parent Dad's blog for a long list of posts; if you can't find something you like in there then I think you may be a sandwich short of a picnic.
Secondly, the Potty Training (cue voice of Doom, scary Jaws music, and general drooping of shoulders). Boy #2 came home from nursery with two pairs of pants, socks and trousers in a bag today. He was, of course, spectacularly unconcerned by this - as he should be, it's not he who has to spoon the poo - but I was a little cowed. And whilst he did mount a couple of successful assaults on the potty at home this afternoon, I'm more than a little concerned that during dinner he - to borrow an expression from Bush Mummy - parked a fatty in his pants whilst assuring me he was doing nothing of the sort. He only admitted to his little indiscretion when he tried to sit down again (after rising to his feet to add emphasis to his denial, which by the way was quite unnecessary since I, his brother, and most of the neighbourhood around could tell what had happened from the pong), and was unable to, because it was just too damned uncomfortable.
It's funny now. Actually, it was funny then, too.
What else, what else...
My two boys have been yanking my chain something rotten this afternoon - quite aside from the potty situation. It's as if they like to see how far they can push before I explode. I know, I should let it all wash over me. I know that. But when your sons seem to be doing their utmost to make you lose it - well, that can make me lose it. As I said to Husband this evening, I am not a fxxking saint (bless him for his feigned suprise at this shocking news) and I can only remain calm, focused, and in control for so long. Sooner or later the constant stream of willfullness and critiscism will get to me.
For example, today, I made it through the Boy #1's school pick up and his subsequent outrage at the fact that I had not brought a snack for him with good grace. Once we got home, I rationally challenged his peromptery dismassal of me (and his subsequent screaming for help when he found he was unable to do it himself) when I offered to help with the popper on his trousers as he got changed out of his school uniform.
I weathered the storm as the Boys fought guerilla-style for control of the kitchen steps so they could help me break eggs to make fairy cakes (cupcakes for those of you from the US) for Boy #2 to take to school tomorrow, and mildly suggested that one of them might like to use the chair to stand on instead. Like they always do.
I even sailed placidly through the hurricane of getting them both unwillingly to the table to eat their dinner, with Boy #1 refusing his in disgust (he ate it, and even liked it once he tried it - eventually), and Boy #2 making detours every 5 minutes to pick up the trains and bus that he was repeatedly pushing off the table.
But for some reason, what finally got to me was the screaming in the bathroom when Boy #1 decided the water was too hot and his brother thought it was too cold. How can it be both? At the same time?
I knew they were winding me up, and what's worse, they knew it was working, so I took the only course of action that seemed reasonable. I sent their father into the bathroom to deal with the mayhem, and retired to the kitchen to put chocolate icing on Boy #2's birthday fairy cakes.
And then I ate the leftovers.
(Actually, scratch that. It's Day 6 of potty training Boy #2 - I'm going nowhere. Other than trips from one end of the flat to unload the washing machine and to the other to mop the floor behind Boy #2, I've got nothing but time...)
First up, it's Carnival Time again. Check out Single Parent Dad's blog for a long list of posts; if you can't find something you like in there then I think you may be a sandwich short of a picnic.
Secondly, the Potty Training (cue voice of Doom, scary Jaws music, and general drooping of shoulders). Boy #2 came home from nursery with two pairs of pants, socks and trousers in a bag today. He was, of course, spectacularly unconcerned by this - as he should be, it's not he who has to spoon the poo - but I was a little cowed. And whilst he did mount a couple of successful assaults on the potty at home this afternoon, I'm more than a little concerned that during dinner he - to borrow an expression from Bush Mummy - parked a fatty in his pants whilst assuring me he was doing nothing of the sort. He only admitted to his little indiscretion when he tried to sit down again (after rising to his feet to add emphasis to his denial, which by the way was quite unnecessary since I, his brother, and most of the neighbourhood around could tell what had happened from the pong), and was unable to, because it was just too damned uncomfortable.
It's funny now. Actually, it was funny then, too.
What else, what else...
My two boys have been yanking my chain something rotten this afternoon - quite aside from the potty situation. It's as if they like to see how far they can push before I explode. I know, I should let it all wash over me. I know that. But when your sons seem to be doing their utmost to make you lose it - well, that can make me lose it. As I said to Husband this evening, I am not a fxxking saint (bless him for his feigned suprise at this shocking news) and I can only remain calm, focused, and in control for so long. Sooner or later the constant stream of willfullness and critiscism will get to me.
For example, today, I made it through the Boy #1's school pick up and his subsequent outrage at the fact that I had not brought a snack for him with good grace. Once we got home, I rationally challenged his peromptery dismassal of me (and his subsequent screaming for help when he found he was unable to do it himself) when I offered to help with the popper on his trousers as he got changed out of his school uniform.
I weathered the storm as the Boys fought guerilla-style for control of the kitchen steps so they could help me break eggs to make fairy cakes (cupcakes for those of you from the US) for Boy #2 to take to school tomorrow, and mildly suggested that one of them might like to use the chair to stand on instead. Like they always do.
I even sailed placidly through the hurricane of getting them both unwillingly to the table to eat their dinner, with Boy #1 refusing his in disgust (he ate it, and even liked it once he tried it - eventually), and Boy #2 making detours every 5 minutes to pick up the trains and bus that he was repeatedly pushing off the table.
But for some reason, what finally got to me was the screaming in the bathroom when Boy #1 decided the water was too hot and his brother thought it was too cold. How can it be both? At the same time?
I knew they were winding me up, and what's worse, they knew it was working, so I took the only course of action that seemed reasonable. I sent their father into the bathroom to deal with the mayhem, and retired to the kitchen to put chocolate icing on Boy #2's birthday fairy cakes.
And then I ate the leftovers.
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
5 going on 12
Day 5. (Take Geordie accent as read, please)
After only 1 change of clothes today and a good few successful potty sorties, I think I can almost definitely say we're making progress here. There are still a few bridges to be crossed, not least the fact that my gorgeous son does not actually seem aware of it when he produces more than wee, assuring me solemnly that no, he has 'Not. Poohed.' when my nose is assuring me that he most certainly has as I open the windows and wave the rugs around in a fruitless attempt to freshen things up a little.
I'm also a little bemused by his habit of exxageratedly tiptoe-ing his way to the potty if he has had an accident. Perhaps he thinks that this will minimise contact between his legs and the wet trousers? Or, being of a tidy disposition perhaps he is simply trying not to spread the resultant mess around? (He has been known to busily fuss around his room putting trains on tracks or in boxes for hours, before destroying them with attacks from killer t-rexs or cuddly crocodiles - which should go without saying, really.) Anyway, as long as he stops the ballet-steps before he's 10 there should be no lasting damage.
In years to come I can see him and his older brother Captain Adorable cutting quite a dash with the young ladies of Kensington and Chelsea...
Speaking of Captain Adorable, it seems that Boy #1's brush with the hairdresser yesterday has speeded up the onset of adolescence somewhat. As I mentioned on my last post, I took both the Boys for their two-monthly appointment with DEATH, at least that's how Boy #2 regards it. He was as usual easily distracted by a Thomas Tank Engine book, a chocolate, the pretty fish swimming in the tank in front of him, and oh look! Something Shiny! but it was whilst I was in the middle of my impression of a particularly frenetic Red Coat trying to keep my younger son in his chair that the hairdresser cutting Boy #1's hair set to with an electric razor.
Yes. AN ELECTRIC RAZOR! She performed a Number 3 cut - on my 5 year old son.
I could have wept when I glanced up and saw - too late - what was happening. As it turned out, wouldn't you know, he can carry this look off, and now looks older but totally gorgeous. As the east european lady who had carried out the massacre on his hair finished up, she turned to me and said:
"Gorgeoussss! Gor-dge-oussss! If ghe waz 20 'ears olter, Ah would be afffter ghim, Ah tell you!"
I rather wish she hadn't said that. Like all 5 year-olds, given the right opportunity Boy #1 can be rather vain, and consequently spent much of yesterday evening's bath admiring his new look in the mirror. And after I picked him up from his first day back at school today (having had to wrestle him free from the embraces of various little girls), he was using - out of the blue - expressions like 'Whatever!' and 'Fugeddaboudit'. He even had the nerve to ask me, when I wandered into the sitting room to check on him and his brother when everything was suspiciously quiet, what I wanted, why I was bothering him, and informed me that I could go.
After a brief conversation where I made it clear he would not ever be having his hair cut again if this attitude continued, he apologised. I suspect though that the moment I had left the room he checked his look in the mirror.
I blame his father. Obviously.
After only 1 change of clothes today and a good few successful potty sorties, I think I can almost definitely say we're making progress here. There are still a few bridges to be crossed, not least the fact that my gorgeous son does not actually seem aware of it when he produces more than wee, assuring me solemnly that no, he has 'Not. Poohed.' when my nose is assuring me that he most certainly has as I open the windows and wave the rugs around in a fruitless attempt to freshen things up a little.
I'm also a little bemused by his habit of exxageratedly tiptoe-ing his way to the potty if he has had an accident. Perhaps he thinks that this will minimise contact between his legs and the wet trousers? Or, being of a tidy disposition perhaps he is simply trying not to spread the resultant mess around? (He has been known to busily fuss around his room putting trains on tracks or in boxes for hours, before destroying them with attacks from killer t-rexs or cuddly crocodiles - which should go without saying, really.) Anyway, as long as he stops the ballet-steps before he's 10 there should be no lasting damage.
In years to come I can see him and his older brother Captain Adorable cutting quite a dash with the young ladies of Kensington and Chelsea...
Speaking of Captain Adorable, it seems that Boy #1's brush with the hairdresser yesterday has speeded up the onset of adolescence somewhat. As I mentioned on my last post, I took both the Boys for their two-monthly appointment with DEATH, at least that's how Boy #2 regards it. He was as usual easily distracted by a Thomas Tank Engine book, a chocolate, the pretty fish swimming in the tank in front of him, and oh look! Something Shiny! but it was whilst I was in the middle of my impression of a particularly frenetic Red Coat trying to keep my younger son in his chair that the hairdresser cutting Boy #1's hair set to with an electric razor.
Yes. AN ELECTRIC RAZOR! She performed a Number 3 cut - on my 5 year old son.
I could have wept when I glanced up and saw - too late - what was happening. As it turned out, wouldn't you know, he can carry this look off, and now looks older but totally gorgeous. As the east european lady who had carried out the massacre on his hair finished up, she turned to me and said:
"Gorgeoussss! Gor-dge-oussss! If ghe waz 20 'ears olter, Ah would be afffter ghim, Ah tell you!"
I rather wish she hadn't said that. Like all 5 year-olds, given the right opportunity Boy #1 can be rather vain, and consequently spent much of yesterday evening's bath admiring his new look in the mirror. And after I picked him up from his first day back at school today (having had to wrestle him free from the embraces of various little girls), he was using - out of the blue - expressions like 'Whatever!' and 'Fugeddaboudit'. He even had the nerve to ask me, when I wandered into the sitting room to check on him and his brother when everything was suspiciously quiet, what I wanted, why I was bothering him, and informed me that I could go.
After a brief conversation where I made it clear he would not ever be having his hair cut again if this attitude continued, he apologised. I suspect though that the moment I had left the room he checked his look in the mirror.
I blame his father. Obviously.
Monday, 5 January 2009
Washing machine temporarily reprieved
Dearya Fowah.
(I can do it! I totally have this phonetic Geordie accent thing down. Thanks Expat Mum... And for those of you who have no clue what the incredibly obvious words above mean, it says 'Day 4' in Geordie...) (Oh yes, it does...)
Boy #2 seems to be getting the hang of this potty lark a little. Not a lot - but a little. We've still gone through 2 pairs of pants and one pair of trousers and socks so far today, but we're not talking biblical floods here, more rushy streams that - gasp - Boy #2 was able to put a stop to once he realised what was going on. Not perfect, but a start...
I would now write about something a little more interesting but having been confined to barracks for the last 3 days in the interests of ditching the nappies, my knowledge of goings-on in the real world are somewhat limited.
Here's what I know...
I know it's cold. I know it actually sleeted here this morning - which is a bit of an Event here and is probably the closest we'll get to real snow in Central London until sometime in 2010 - so I took the opportunity to put on my Timberland boots since this is the closest the poor under-utilised shoes will get to 'extreme weather' this winter. I know too that they looked ridiculous clumping round Sainsbury's on the Cromwell Road.
What else? I know Husband is immersed in work and monosyllabic as a result. I know that both my sons are SOOO ready for school again tomorrow. I know that I am even readier for this to happen than they are. And I know that on our trip to get the Boys' hair cut this afternoon I will end up bribing them to behave with lollies, and still have to drag Boy #2 kicking and screaming away from the toy locomotive he's sitting in when we leave...
And finally, I know that I would like to write the following e-mail and send it to multiple recipients, but that I won't, not really...
From: Potty Mummy
To: Editors (of certain free magazines)
Re: Etiquette
Dear Editors (of certain free magazines),
Hi, me again, Potty Mummy. You remember, perhaps..? I wrote to you a couple of months back and asked if I might possibly be of help by providing free content which fitted in with your overall editoral approach. You don't remember?
Anyway, you didn't get the chance to get back to me yet, and I do appreciate that you are busy. You are, no doubt, Very Important. May I suggest though, that even so it probably wouldn't slow you down too much to set up a standard reply saying, 'Thanks, but no thanks'.
Best regards,
PM.
(I can do it! I totally have this phonetic Geordie accent thing down. Thanks Expat Mum... And for those of you who have no clue what the incredibly obvious words above mean, it says 'Day 4' in Geordie...) (Oh yes, it does...)
Boy #2 seems to be getting the hang of this potty lark a little. Not a lot - but a little. We've still gone through 2 pairs of pants and one pair of trousers and socks so far today, but we're not talking biblical floods here, more rushy streams that - gasp - Boy #2 was able to put a stop to once he realised what was going on. Not perfect, but a start...
I would now write about something a little more interesting but having been confined to barracks for the last 3 days in the interests of ditching the nappies, my knowledge of goings-on in the real world are somewhat limited.
Here's what I know...
I know it's cold. I know it actually sleeted here this morning - which is a bit of an Event here and is probably the closest we'll get to real snow in Central London until sometime in 2010 - so I took the opportunity to put on my Timberland boots since this is the closest the poor under-utilised shoes will get to 'extreme weather' this winter. I know too that they looked ridiculous clumping round Sainsbury's on the Cromwell Road.
What else? I know Husband is immersed in work and monosyllabic as a result. I know that both my sons are SOOO ready for school again tomorrow. I know that I am even readier for this to happen than they are. And I know that on our trip to get the Boys' hair cut this afternoon I will end up bribing them to behave with lollies, and still have to drag Boy #2 kicking and screaming away from the toy locomotive he's sitting in when we leave...
And finally, I know that I would like to write the following e-mail and send it to multiple recipients, but that I won't, not really...
From: Potty Mummy
To: Editors (of certain free magazines)
Re: Etiquette
Dear Editors (of certain free magazines),
Hi, me again, Potty Mummy. You remember, perhaps..? I wrote to you a couple of months back and asked if I might possibly be of help by providing free content which fitted in with your overall editoral approach. You don't remember?
Anyway, you didn't get the chance to get back to me yet, and I do appreciate that you are busy. You are, no doubt, Very Important. May I suggest though, that even so it probably wouldn't slow you down too much to set up a standard reply saying, 'Thanks, but no thanks'.
Best regards,
PM.
Sunday, 4 January 2009
Silver linings
Day 3.
For those of you who watch British tv, I imagined saying that with a Geordie accent as in 'Big Brother'. Sad, huh? And just as sad, it's virtually impossible to write phonetically as far as I know -though perhaps the comments box will tell me otherwise?
Still housebound. After a fun-filled day yesterday of chasing poo and wee, with a grand total of 6 pairs of pants making it into the wash (but only 4 pairs of trousers - after Incident 4 I gave up on those and decided that if Boy #2 wants to behave like trailer-trash, he can look like it too...), today we have had Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
That is not, however, because my son has suddenly seen the light and is merrily using the potty at every opportunity. Oh no. It is actually because he took full advantage of being nappied-up for our trip to church this morning. (I may be facing this potty training malarky head-on, but I am not stoopid, and didn't fancy pulling out a mop and bucket to deal with an unscheduled 'disasters' in the pews.) No doubt he is 'filling his boots' (please pardon the expression) again as I type in the nappy he's wearing for his sleep.
So it's official. I'm not stupid - but neither is he.
Now there's a thought to comfort myself with as I mop the mess up later...
For those of you who watch British tv, I imagined saying that with a Geordie accent as in 'Big Brother'. Sad, huh? And just as sad, it's virtually impossible to write phonetically as far as I know -though perhaps the comments box will tell me otherwise?
Still housebound. After a fun-filled day yesterday of chasing poo and wee, with a grand total of 6 pairs of pants making it into the wash (but only 4 pairs of trousers - after Incident 4 I gave up on those and decided that if Boy #2 wants to behave like trailer-trash, he can look like it too...), today we have had Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
That is not, however, because my son has suddenly seen the light and is merrily using the potty at every opportunity. Oh no. It is actually because he took full advantage of being nappied-up for our trip to church this morning. (I may be facing this potty training malarky head-on, but I am not stoopid, and didn't fancy pulling out a mop and bucket to deal with an unscheduled 'disasters' in the pews.) No doubt he is 'filling his boots' (please pardon the expression) again as I type in the nappy he's wearing for his sleep.
So it's official. I'm not stupid - but neither is he.
Now there's a thought to comfort myself with as I mop the mess up later...
Saturday, 3 January 2009
Learning curves
Day #2 of our self-imposed isolation as the potty training of a very unconcerned Boy #2 continues. Yesterday's tally was 3 'incidents', today's is already at 4 - and one of them involved my searching the flat for escaped poo.
Oh, the joys of motherhood.
Thankfully Husband is at home to help deal with the fall-out, so he has been whisking Boy #2 off to the bathroom for a clean-up and a reminder of the rules - poo or wee in the potty equal chocolate, but anywhere else does not - whilst I, well, chase poo. Or wee. Whatever - it's all good fun... (I tell myself this in spite of the fact that it is of course anything but).
In any case, the last 24 hours or so has been enlightening for Husband, since he was not really at home much when Boy #1 went through this process. I can't blame him for being surprised; the sheer frustration of putting your son on the potty, have him get up after 15 minutes without having produced anything, and then having to change his trousers due to an accident only 10 minutes after that, is not something that they tell you about when you see the extra line on your pregnancy test.
Well, to be fair they might do, but you disregard it along with a host of other things you are convinced will not concern you; controlled crying; Gina Ford; 'necker' poohs - I'm sure if you've had kids I don't need to explain that one, and if you haven't well, I'll let you find out about them all by yourself - dummies (pacifiers for non-Brits); new washing machines due to the death of your old one through exhaustion; plastic toys under your feet first thing in the morning as you stumble to the bathroom to put in your contact lenses; interfering strangers; interfering friends and family; 'suitable for aged 3 years and above' toys given as a present to your newborn; sick patches on your collar, and - oh, you get the picture.
So, yes, we are in the thick of it.
He's got until Monday to improve. If we're still on 4 or more pairs of trousers a day by then I may wave the shite (sorry, White, I meant white!) flag for a while and try again next month. If for no other reason than he's due back at nursery on Tuesday, and if we take him in with his current laissez-faire attitude to off-potty un-nappied loo stops we may get drummed out of town. I mean, asking them to deal with two accidents in a morning, fair enough, and I have no doubt they'll be fine with that. But 4 or 5? That could be pushing it a little.
Speaking of things you don't think about when you first find out you're pregnant, here's another. Buggy Envy. When Boy #1 was born in 2003 he was a couple of weeks early; earlier, in fact, than the buggy we'd ordered. This was swiftly rectified by the nice people at John Lewis, who delivered our Quinny buggy and maxi cosi car seat pdq once we called and explained the problem. It was only then that I discovered I had made a major error in choosing our preferred mode of baby transport.
I had taken my husband along when I bought it.
We had purchased the king of 'off-roaders'; a Quinny Freestyle. Sure, it was comfortable for junior. It looked great; all whizzy reflectors, drop handle bars, bicycle bells and removable blow-up tyred-wheels. It was just the sort of thing any self-respecting bloke would be proud to be seen pushing. 'Here I am' it said. 'Get out of my way. I am a buggy-pushing Dad and proud of it.' And yes, it did the job pretty well; it made it through 2 boys and is still suitable to be passed on for someone else to make use of. Always assuming that is that they live in Outer Mongolia, have biceps of steel and a car boot the size of a ship. (Are you getting the problem yet?).
So when I saw my more sensible mummy-friends with their Bugaboo Frogs tripping around town, scooting up escalators, and free-wheeling into and out of shops my leviathon couldn't fit into, you can imagine that a tiny little bit of envy might escape.
Consequently when I was contacted by Bugaboo to take a look at their new website, I thought, why not? Especially since they came bearing gifts.
It's pretty much as I expected. Bugaboo comes across as a company that, whilst stylish and fashionable, also has it's users' best interests at heart; their designs are innovative and useful, and make parents' lives easier. The website? Well, it has a couple of interesting features.
There is a section on daytrips that gives ideas on what to do as a family when buggied-up, which whilst it might seem a no-brainer is not something I've come across presented in this way on-line before. Mind you, I didn't look too hard at the stage when such a thing was relevant, so it may well be a secret I just never picked up on.
And there is the chance to register yourself as a 'friend'. I haven't done so, feeling that as non-Bugaboo owner and with my younger son now just about to abandon buggies altogether it's not that relevant (and also I have you guys - who needs more online input, really?), but I guess that it's still something that might come in useful for yummy mummies relocating and looking to create a new network. Or something.
Anyway, overall, it's an OK site. Though I can't help feeling that Nappy Valley Girl hit on something in this post. It's all very well to spend time and money coming up with a site that echoes brand values and connects with your target consumers, Messrs Bugaboo, but what about the real glaring ommission in your offering?
Double buggies, anyone?
If they'd offered one, I would have bought it. Instead, I ended up with another leviathon. Also purchased with Husband in tow. 'Nuff said?
Oh, the joys of motherhood.
Thankfully Husband is at home to help deal with the fall-out, so he has been whisking Boy #2 off to the bathroom for a clean-up and a reminder of the rules - poo or wee in the potty equal chocolate, but anywhere else does not - whilst I, well, chase poo. Or wee. Whatever - it's all good fun... (I tell myself this in spite of the fact that it is of course anything but).
In any case, the last 24 hours or so has been enlightening for Husband, since he was not really at home much when Boy #1 went through this process. I can't blame him for being surprised; the sheer frustration of putting your son on the potty, have him get up after 15 minutes without having produced anything, and then having to change his trousers due to an accident only 10 minutes after that, is not something that they tell you about when you see the extra line on your pregnancy test.
Well, to be fair they might do, but you disregard it along with a host of other things you are convinced will not concern you; controlled crying; Gina Ford; 'necker' poohs - I'm sure if you've had kids I don't need to explain that one, and if you haven't well, I'll let you find out about them all by yourself - dummies (pacifiers for non-Brits); new washing machines due to the death of your old one through exhaustion; plastic toys under your feet first thing in the morning as you stumble to the bathroom to put in your contact lenses; interfering strangers; interfering friends and family; 'suitable for aged 3 years and above' toys given as a present to your newborn; sick patches on your collar, and - oh, you get the picture.
So, yes, we are in the thick of it.
He's got until Monday to improve. If we're still on 4 or more pairs of trousers a day by then I may wave the shite (sorry, White, I meant white!) flag for a while and try again next month. If for no other reason than he's due back at nursery on Tuesday, and if we take him in with his current laissez-faire attitude to off-potty un-nappied loo stops we may get drummed out of town. I mean, asking them to deal with two accidents in a morning, fair enough, and I have no doubt they'll be fine with that. But 4 or 5? That could be pushing it a little.
Speaking of things you don't think about when you first find out you're pregnant, here's another. Buggy Envy. When Boy #1 was born in 2003 he was a couple of weeks early; earlier, in fact, than the buggy we'd ordered. This was swiftly rectified by the nice people at John Lewis, who delivered our Quinny buggy and maxi cosi car seat pdq once we called and explained the problem. It was only then that I discovered I had made a major error in choosing our preferred mode of baby transport.
I had taken my husband along when I bought it.
We had purchased the king of 'off-roaders'; a Quinny Freestyle. Sure, it was comfortable for junior. It looked great; all whizzy reflectors, drop handle bars, bicycle bells and removable blow-up tyred-wheels. It was just the sort of thing any self-respecting bloke would be proud to be seen pushing. 'Here I am' it said. 'Get out of my way. I am a buggy-pushing Dad and proud of it.' And yes, it did the job pretty well; it made it through 2 boys and is still suitable to be passed on for someone else to make use of. Always assuming that is that they live in Outer Mongolia, have biceps of steel and a car boot the size of a ship. (Are you getting the problem yet?).
So when I saw my more sensible mummy-friends with their Bugaboo Frogs tripping around town, scooting up escalators, and free-wheeling into and out of shops my leviathon couldn't fit into, you can imagine that a tiny little bit of envy might escape.
Consequently when I was contacted by Bugaboo to take a look at their new website, I thought, why not? Especially since they came bearing gifts.
It's pretty much as I expected. Bugaboo comes across as a company that, whilst stylish and fashionable, also has it's users' best interests at heart; their designs are innovative and useful, and make parents' lives easier. The website? Well, it has a couple of interesting features.
There is a section on daytrips that gives ideas on what to do as a family when buggied-up, which whilst it might seem a no-brainer is not something I've come across presented in this way on-line before. Mind you, I didn't look too hard at the stage when such a thing was relevant, so it may well be a secret I just never picked up on.
And there is the chance to register yourself as a 'friend'. I haven't done so, feeling that as non-Bugaboo owner and with my younger son now just about to abandon buggies altogether it's not that relevant (and also I have you guys - who needs more online input, really?), but I guess that it's still something that might come in useful for yummy mummies relocating and looking to create a new network. Or something.
Anyway, overall, it's an OK site. Though I can't help feeling that Nappy Valley Girl hit on something in this post. It's all very well to spend time and money coming up with a site that echoes brand values and connects with your target consumers, Messrs Bugaboo, but what about the real glaring ommission in your offering?
Double buggies, anyone?
If they'd offered one, I would have bought it. Instead, I ended up with another leviathon. Also purchased with Husband in tow. 'Nuff said?
Friday, 2 January 2009
Let battle commence...
We're going cold turkey on the nappies, as from today.
Boy #2 did not take the news well.
I had been convinced that bringing out the big guns - namely, pants with his favourite Thomas the Tank Engine characters on the front of them - would be enough to secure his buy-in to this project, but he took one look and refused to go anywhere near them. He's no fool - he knows that his happy-go-lucky days of 'go anywhere' loo habits are over. For the next hour he ran around the flat bare-bottomed, asking piteously for 'clothes' but in fact meaning 'a nappy'. Cold-hearted mother that I am, I refused, explaining that during the day he wears pants now.
The fact that it's freezing outside and a little fresher than usual inside meant that eventually he succumbed and put on the pants. (And the suggestion that each poo or wee in the potty would be rewarded with a chocolate button might have had something to do with it, I suppose...)
As for how he's done? Well, it's only 10.30am. He was dry until 10.15am, despite two fruitless sessions on the potty and annoyingly frequent (no doubt) suggestions from me that he might like to use the facilities. Then I made a major error of judgement. Deciding it was probably safe for me to run a wash as things seemed to be going so well, I put the laundry on. Boy #2, on hearing me close the door of the washing machine and start it up, decided that now was in fact the perfect time for a wee.
I don't think his timing was insignificant; I am now unable to wash his soaking pants, trousers and socks until the load currently in the machine is finished.
I see a long and damp couple of days ahead...
Boy #2 did not take the news well.
I had been convinced that bringing out the big guns - namely, pants with his favourite Thomas the Tank Engine characters on the front of them - would be enough to secure his buy-in to this project, but he took one look and refused to go anywhere near them. He's no fool - he knows that his happy-go-lucky days of 'go anywhere' loo habits are over. For the next hour he ran around the flat bare-bottomed, asking piteously for 'clothes' but in fact meaning 'a nappy'. Cold-hearted mother that I am, I refused, explaining that during the day he wears pants now.
The fact that it's freezing outside and a little fresher than usual inside meant that eventually he succumbed and put on the pants. (And the suggestion that each poo or wee in the potty would be rewarded with a chocolate button might have had something to do with it, I suppose...)
As for how he's done? Well, it's only 10.30am. He was dry until 10.15am, despite two fruitless sessions on the potty and annoyingly frequent (no doubt) suggestions from me that he might like to use the facilities. Then I made a major error of judgement. Deciding it was probably safe for me to run a wash as things seemed to be going so well, I put the laundry on. Boy #2, on hearing me close the door of the washing machine and start it up, decided that now was in fact the perfect time for a wee.
I don't think his timing was insignificant; I am now unable to wash his soaking pants, trousers and socks until the load currently in the machine is finished.
I see a long and damp couple of days ahead...
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