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.