... 'til the fat lady sings.
And on Deeya Nayn, she's not even started warming up, the tardy trollope.
Or, to put it another way: On the 9th Day, the Lord said, "Thou shalt not commit the sin of Pride, Potty Mummy." And the Floods came, and Potty Mummy knew that her Rejoicing had been Too Soon, and the Purgatory of Potty Training was not yet Over...
3 extra pairs of trousers, 3 extra pairs of socks, and most importantly, 3 extra pairs of pants. That's the laundry your 3 year old will generate if you take your eye off the ball for even one cotton-pickin' moment here in Potty Mansions, blast it. And that's not counting the 'accident' in the bathroom first thing this morning, when Boy #2 absentmindedly picked up the potty to gain better access to his Playmobil plane, and dropped the contents all over the floor. Mind you, I did manage one outrageously good save at lunch time when for some reason I looked up from my magazine to see that Boy #2 had got that 'concentrating' look about him. I dropped everything to race to the bathroom with him, scattering playmobil figurines left, right and centre in our wake, and in the nick of time, saved myself from having to wash pants, socks and trousers set No #4.
As I sat there next to him, reading - yet again - about Thomas the Tank engine whilst trying to breathe through my mouth (now there's a neat trick if you can develop it), I was reminded of another moment of extra-sensory motherly perception. It's amazing how you develop this, but even the least likely candidate, i.e. me, can do it. You know the situations. It's too quiet. You check on your sons, and find one of them just about to jump off the top step using a handkerchief as a parachute. Or about to eat the last cookie off the Christmas tree. Or just about to tip a full cup of bathwater over the floor to see if the plastic fish will float out of the bath. Actually, scratch that last one - I always arrive just after that happens...
Anyway, this one was just over 5 years ago, at Christmas lunch in my parent's house. The table was being cleared, and I was sitting holding Boy #1 - then 3 months old - and chatting to my brother and a friend of his. I happened to glance down at my little angel and could just tell he was about to throw up. There was nothing to hand; no muslin, no napkin, no handy receptacle to catch what experience told me was going to be very unpleasant-smelling puke. So, in a move unthinkable to pre-child bearing me, I simply cupped my hands and caught it.
There was a horrified pause. My brother B and his friend R looked at me, then at each other. Being only around 26 at the time their exposure to this kind of extreme parenting had been minimal. I could see that they weren't sure whether to throw up themselves, or faint and melt away under the table like a pair of girls.
"Whoah..." said B, after a suitable, awed, interval. "Too right." said R. "PM, you are one 10th Dan motha..."
I graciously accepted the compliment. Well, it took my mind off the fact my hands were full of sick.