Aimee Horton

When you get pooh on your toe.


I’m going to say this now, and please hear the venom in my voice I hate potty training.

When I think back two years ago, when I uncover the memories I worked so hard to forget, when I make myself remember toilet training The Beast, it seemed like an age away before The Chunky Monkey took us through the same stinky trial.  But now, here we are, and I hate to type this but I guess I’m going to have to face facts…it’s nearly time.

He actually showed the signs of being ready back in June when we were on holiday and we did do a few toilet sessions, after all, the best (HA) time to do it is apparently in the warm weather (I’m thinking more like when HELL FREEZES OVER), however, as we all know I’m not very good with pooh, in fact, that blog even tells you I was totally intending to chicken out potty training The Chunky Monkey over the summer.  I used the excuses “he was too young” and that I “didn’t want to ruin The Beasts summer before he started school”. Down. Right. Lie. I didn’t want to ruin MY summer. After all, I remember witnessing The Beast doing a pooh on the lawn, right next to my deck chair, I wasn’t ready for that so soon.

You see, as I said,  I’ve done this all before.  It’s not a pleasant experience. In fact – no pun intended – it’s shit.

Last night, as we were doing the old early stages of “sitting on the toilet before bed” I was zoomed back to one of those life scaring memories.  I remember squatting on the floor of the bathroom, I remember making the PUSHHHHHH noises and motion (for those of you who aren’t aware of this – SHAME ON YOU – you rest your hands on your knees, and you say “puuushhhhh” in a deep pushing tone.  Oh and you push).  I was working extra hard to keep The Chunky Monkey on the toilet.  You see…I’d caught him mid pooh.  I’d pulled his pull up up after the bath, and it had torn a bit, and so I’d let him wander around while I did a few jobs, I heard the grunt of the early stages of pooh pushing (I HATE that I know these things), and I quickly whipped him onto the toilet seat that was luckily already strategically placed on the loo.  Unfortunately, a bit of the pooh had already come out, so on yanking the nappy open it fell on my bare toe. That’s right. TWO rookie errors resulted in boke worthy consequences.  You see, if you read the earlier blog about pooh, I have had a pooh land on my foot before.  It’s not an enjoyable experience.  I should have KNOWN to check the nappy, I should have KNOWN to wear SOMETHING  on my feet.  But I didn’t.  I’m out of practice.  I’m complacent.  I’m naive.

So there I am, I’m squatting, I’m pushing, I’m letting The Chunky Monkey poke me in the eye because he REALLY wants to get down, but I REALLY want him to stay up there, I’m trying to block out the wet trumping sound, I’m trying to block out the smell.  So rather then him come down and risk another pooh on foot debacle (bit of sick in mouth) I actually let him poke me in the eye.  I even make a OUCH noise. He even laughs.  MY CHILD LAUGHS WHEN HE HURTS ME. Then all of a sudden, I need a wee.  But what’s a mum to do?  I need him to stay on the loo.  I can’t leave him as he’s precariously placed as it is. So I have to hold it.

We managed to get away fairly unscathed after all that.  he did a pooh, we took him off the toilet, we clapped and waved goodbye to it as we flushed the chain (bork), and whilst he refused to bend over and touch his toes while I wipe his squidgey bum, he did lie on the changing mat while I cleaned him up. WELL DONE CHUNKY CHOPS.

Later, after they were both in bed, I sat, shaken at a solo potty training moment, sipping my wine, consoling myself that it’s going to be another month or so until we REALLY start doing it.  Until the actual potties come in use, until I have to slosh wee down the loo (if I’m lucky), or if I’m unlucky, if I discover a wet panted child in one room, but have to go on a wet puddle hunt to try and find the location of the offending wee.  The wet pants, the peeling off the wet jeans, the additional laundry.  I consoled myself that he still tells me AFTER he’s done the pooh usually, so it’s ok.

Then this morning, whilst in the shower, he runs in, I’m midway through attempting to shave my legs along with explaining to The Beast how to delete photos from his ipod (Matthew is out having his eyes checked, the lucky bastard), the Chunky One shouts POOH, before dragging a potty into the room (I didn’t even know there was a potty on that floor anymore, let alone where it was), and attempting to pull down his nappy.  Luckily it was a false alarm, and even more luckily I’m pleased to note, his bum is so fat that pull up nappies don’t go down very easily. HA! But it looks like we’re moving forward quicker then I’d like.

Even now, while I’ve locked the door of my study, claiming 5 minutes peace while all three boys are upstairs destroying their bedrooms, I hear the words “DADDY POOH”, and I’m pleased to note, the slightly panicked sound to daddy’s voice, while he rushes to put the Chunky Monkey on the toilet, and The Beast tries to get him to help do up his Spiderman suit.  But in the pit of my stomach. This isn’t good.  After all, do they make pants big enough for Fatty?

Plus…here’s a little video for you all to enjoy…

Pass the gin.


When it’s all a bit pooh.


I’ve always had a rather sensitive nose.  This is not something I’m pleased about.  Whilst it’s useful (I can sniff out a dirty nappy three floors down), it also has massive draw backs – especially as I don’t cope well with gross things, to put into perspective how sensitive my gag reflex is, I can bork at the thought of a lone pooh lying sadly at the bottom of a public toilet which has failed to be flushed away by the previous occupant.

In fact, I’ve just gagged a little bit and had to go and get a can of diet coke out of the fridge and stop sweating.

When I fell pregnant with the Beast I flashed back about 8 years, to when I used to regularly babysit my nephews and once my nephew did a nappy SO SO bad that I threw up walking past him, and I had to call my sister to see if she was on her way home.  She was, so I just sucked on an entire packet of polos for 20 minutes until she got home and changed it.

Then I flashed back a further 10 years to when our hair dresser used to come to our house and to do our hair.  She used to bring her baby with her who I adored.  However I remember physically heaving and getting a little sick in my mouth at the smell of food she was feeding the baby from a jar.

Through the years, I used to hate going to the toilets at work (especially those that were unisex), hated walking into the butchers to get my meat, the fish counter at the supermarket, opening the wheely bin.  All things that made me feel more then a little nauseas, had me breathing through my mouth and finishing whatever business I had as quickly as possible.

I began to panic about who was going to do the babies nappies for me, especially as during both pregnancies, my sense of smell and my vomit reflex was even more heightened, and I became adept with throwing up in various unusual places (daily pulling my car into a lay-by on the A1 as I drove past McDonalds on the way to work, the bin outside the butchers, outside a public toilet when I DESPERATELY had to nip in for a wee, had to hold my breath then throw up).  I was even more nauseas (for the first 24 weeks) during my second pregnancy, and I remember my friends watching me turn green and physically beginning to heave as The Beast  pulled his pooh face, before often taking pity on me and changing his nappy.  Well, I say they took pity on me, they probably didn’t want skittle coloured sick on their carpets.

For two and a half years I was filled with fear for the inevitable potty training fiasco.  I’d toilet trained my nephews by downright REFUSING to deal with the potty.  I couldn’t do it, even emptying a wee down the toilet made me retch a little bit.  I KNOW I KNOW it’s dramatic, it’s ridiculous, but I couldn’t do it! I really don’t know what’s wrong with me.  When the cats have poohed in the house I’ve managed to clean it up when Matt hasn’t been around to do it for me, but it’s been done in a rather dramatic fashion of panting into my heavily perfumed jumper, lots of running outside to breath in fresh air, and possibly more kitchen roll then necessary.

Since having the boys I’ve become quite adept with shooting pooh spattered clothes from nursery nappy sack storage into the washing machine without smelling or touching it.  However, I’m quite impressed with my developed sense of humour with the whole situation.

Sense of humour with pooh?  You? Yes. I know.  Me.  It’s part of my “laugh or you’ll cry” mantra.  You see.  I think I’ve experienced quite a few pooh situations (although @aliceharold made me bork with her rendition of her DD carrying pooh from the potty in her hands).  For example, when one of the boys was days old, I go to change their nappy and they pooh with the nappy off, you know, that wet sort of pooh that squirts in the air.  It landed on my jeans.  It must have been the Beast as I remember grabbing frantically at my mint imperials so not to vomit.  I’ve also known a pooh to roll from nappy onto my bare foot and whilst I’ve changed the nappy calmly, then hopped around the room going “EWW EWWW EWWW” I’ve coped, lived to text Matthew telling him my tale of woe, and I’ve cleared it away.

I would cope better if there wasn’t the texture and the sound to deal with as well.  You know that sound, the slop as it lands in the toilet, splashing into water and gracing us with it’s shitty fragrance.   The sound of the grunts you hear through the baby monitor which warns you that when you open that nursery door you will be hit with a wall of grossness, that wall that requires at least 3 cups of tea to face, that slightly wet trumping sound which you know in the pit of your stomach means there is going to be pooh up to your sons neck.

The texture is another thing all together, hard I can cope with, it’s nothing a sainsburys bag quickly grabbed from the under sink cupboard can pick up (I’ve also being the doting mother that I am, been known to help ease a hard one out with a rubber glove and some water).   It’s the other ones I have issues with.  The sloppy ones that go up to their necks, the sticky ones that don’t just wipe off, you know you really have to rub it, the ones that are so sludgey that they seep through the nappy and you don’t realise until you open the vest and get it under your nails.

Why am I telling you about this now?  I would take it as a warning.  Fatso is ready to be potty trained.  I am quite nervous about this, he’s not even 2 and doesn’t speak very well – just shouts random abuse at you.  However, there’s an inkling that he’s ready.  The fact that you put him on the toilet and do the push motion and he pushes a pooh out.  If he doesn’t need to use the toilet he makes a fuss and demands to be taken off.

I’m holding off.  I know he’s ready, and let’s face it, the sooner he’s out of nappies the better, but there’s that gut feeling that he’s too young.  We were always quite lucky with The Beast once he GOT it, he got it.  We’ve had very very few accidents, never a car incident, however I know Fatty is going to cause more trouble.

Oh yes and that minor thing where I want a dog.  God knows how I’m going to cope with that – they do scented poop-a-scoops don’t they?