I’ve posted a couple of times about our Potty training f*ck ups adventures. If you haven’t read those, check out part one and part two. I have been meaning to do an update for the last couple of months about how amazeballs my kid is and how fantastic it’s going but 1) I keep forgetting to and 2) it would be a complete lie.
Firstly, he is getting better. Much better. He tells us about 90% of the time when he needs the toilet and we make that mad parental panic dash to the nearest urinary receptacle. He is still having accidents but I’m told it’s normal, especially when excited or playing games and distracted. I do feel sometimes like I am sponsored by Surf and Lenor and our heating bills are going to be immense this quarter from drying all the Roary the Racing Car underpants and jeans every day.
*(Side note to husband – I’m TELLING you a tumble dryer would work out cheaper than the heating!)*
Secondly, although much better, I swear this kid uses his toilet habits against me. My clever little sod knows that nothing sends Mummy into an amusing blind panic as much as the threat of rogue bum nuggets making an appearance in restaurants or peeing his pants in the car whilst I’m driving (our two most common accidents).
Tonight on the way home he asked for a biscuit. I said no, he would be having his supper when we got home. So the conversation goes something like this:
“My want biscuit Mummy”
“No, I’ve just told you. You can have supper when you get home”
“Nooooo” (cue wimpering) “My have it Mummy. Now”
“No Blake, you will be home in a minute and you can have something to eat then”
“You’re not what?”
“My not go home!” (more whimpering)
“We are! We will be home in a minute and we will see Daddy! Yey! Daddy time!”
“My haff biscuit now Mummy?”
“No Blake. Stop it. Mummy has said no”
“My haff poo poo”
At this point extreme panic is taking over my whole body. I’m flying over the M57 and I’m literally 3 minutes away from our front door. “What????!!! NO Blake nearly home! La la la… shall we sing? Shall we put the radio on?!”
“My haff biscuit?”
“Oooh listen! Rihanna! “Shine bright like diamondssssss!” Sing with Mummy!” (Sang completely out of tune, half croaking with extreme fear of onslaught of fecal fiasco in the back of my newly valeted vehicle).
“My haff wee wee Mummy”
“If you have a wee wee on the toilet Mummy will get you a biscuit!”
“We’re home Blake!”
I yank the key out of the ignition and fly to the rear door to be greeted with a certain aroma. It’s the familiar waft of failure. His dirty protest. Luckily this time it was mostly wet rather that the other. But it was enough. Enough to break me. We got inside, I faffed with his car seat cover and cleaned his uncovered seat with disinfectant, stripped him off and plonked him on the toilet. As I was loading the washing machine I realised he had saved a bit, just enough still stored in the depths of his bowels so he could proudly shout “My done poo poo on toilet Mummy! My haff biscuit now?” from the downstairs loo.
So fast forward a couple of hours and I have completely forgiven him. The freshly laundered car seat cover, trousers and Roary the Racing Car underpants are on the radiators, Daddy is at the gym and we are having a lovely funny time together. He is being a complete adorable idiot running around with nothing on but insisting he wear his bike helmet.
He even smiled for a photo for once and then jumped up on the sofa for a cuddle before bedtime. From the kitchen I could hear Shaun’s work phone going off. It’s a clever phone that as it’s ringing shouts out the name of the caller.
*Ring Ring Ring Ring “Dad” Ring Ring Ring Ring “Dad”*
My husband and his Dad work together so I knew him calling the work phone would be important and something to do with a job so I ran to the kitchen to get the call, foolishly leaving a naked and hyperactive toddler on the sofa (complete with bike helmet).
As I was chatting to Terry, my father in law, Blake shouts “Surprise Mummy!”. I glanced over at him and felt mildly amused as I saw him poke his winkle in between my sofa cushions. Then I felt a little annoyed thinking his Dad, my idiot husband, had taught him that silly thing all boys do where they tuck their genitals away and pretend to be a woman. As I was chatting to Terry and just about to inform him of his Grandson’s newly acquired skills at ladyboy impersonation, my smirk turned into a shriek as the wet patch appeared and I realised he had peed between the cushions!
So after frantically stripping my sofa cushions off and putting yet another load in the washing machine I filmed the following:
Surprise my arse!