Skip to main content

The potty wars

I am, literally, knee-deep in sh*t.

Yep, the Small(er) One and I are embroiled in the potty wars.

I'm no novice. Firstborn and I had a similar tussle a couple of years ago. At the time it felt as if the transition from nappy to knickers took forever but in hindsight it was no more than a (sometimes painful) month. So far, the Small(er) One has been potty training in one way or another since October last year - which admittedly has included more than a few false starts and some lengthy sabbaticals - and it seems the end is still nowhere in sight.

The nursery has been brilliant. The enthusiasm! The cheering when the Small(er) One is cajoled into sitting on the potty for more than thirty seconds! The wild celebrations when she manages (generally due to luck and timing) to hit the mark! But sadly, after a week of success Firstborn suddenly decided the potty was the cause of all evil in her world and started to implement avoidance tactics. Inquiries as to the state of her bladder are now being met with a determined, "NO!", followed five minutes later by a far-away look and the inevitable trickle - which she then paddles in with a satisfied smirk.

The nursery girls are practically saints but even they are starting to look a little weary as they pass me a bag full of sodden knickers (and worse) at the end of each day. The final straw came when the Small(er) One started a squatting habit in the corner of the nursery, carefully hiding the evidence with a teddy.

Tell me, truly, how damaging will it be for her psyche if she's still wearing nappies at the age of eighteen?

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Grim Reaper

Firstborn is obsessed with death. It started with the odd comment, such as; "Mummy, what happens when you die?" OK, I thought, I was expecting this at some point, what a cute little curious brain she has. So I trotted out all the cosy Heaven stuff and left out all the things that could worry her, such as worms and bones and holes in the ground. This went down pretty well, although somehow Firstborn made the jump from my view of Heaven (filled with love, joy, always warm, never rains, has a huge discount designer shoe outlet and I never have to pay my Visa bill) to her own view of Heaven; a wonderous place where small girls don't have to eat their vegetables before they're allowed pudding, and where Barbie dolls grow on trees. Anyway, I digress. Last week Firstborn started shouting "Kill! Kill!" in a bloodthirsty tone while bashing her hithero-beloved teddy against the wall. This was topped by her purposely flushing her favourite My Little Pony down the loo. ...

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

A friend recently emailed me to say that her big memory of her stay with us last year is that she had a great birthday, one of the few where she didn't 'act like a spoiled grumpy princess'. She tried to give me all the credit but as I explained to her, it was all down to having a fellow female organising the birthday fun rather than leaving it to her partner. Her email got me thinking about birthdays and how very different men and women are in their attitudes to celebrating special occasions. It also had me thinking about my birthday two years ago when I threw a major tantrum in the Carrefour car-park after being told that we were off to do the weekly shop, kids in tow, which was simply the final straw at the end of a very uninspiring day. In contrast, my birthday last year was rather lovely (a morning on my own in a spa with no mobile coverage, pure selfish bliss). This year - in a few short months, eek! - I'll be hitting the grand old age of 38. This will be my las...