I cannot remember the
last time I grocery shopped and didn’t have someone look at my trolley and
laugh.
“My, you must have a
big family,” they comment.
I let them think that.
It’s the six loaves of
bread piled precariously on top that does it (and then we still run out).
However, one thing
that will now be leaving a considerable dent in the trolley is nappies.
I’ve been dealing with
nappies for the last six years and, at its peak, what with power poos and
growth spurts, we were going through up to 30 a day between the three of them.
But now we are out the other side.
At the ripe age of
three and a quarter, my youngest has cottoned onto the art of using a potty. Or
should I say, we have cottoned onto the method of getting him to use it.
All kids are different
but I knew he was on the later side of norm. His twin sister has been using the
toilet for over a year.
Finally this summer I
decided enough was enough. He would go pantless on our camping holiday.
But then it rained all
holiday so the no pants phase was delayed.
Some weeks later,
after much ado, we had him running round in the buff. Then he began peeing in
the grass – but only if we weren’t looking.
Out came the potty, which
I’d decorated with Thomas stickers, and was placed in front of the tv.
The oven timer was set
and every hour I’d ask if he needed to go.
“No, I not got any!”
came his adamant reply.
Five minutes later
he’d piddle on the carpet.
Weeks later and the
potty chart still had a lone pirate sticker – and that was only from one
miniscule drop.
I didn’t want to resort
to food but in a moment of weakness I threw in the added bonus of a jelly bean.
But this also failed to work. Finally one day after my persistent nagging he
responded: “But you’ll laugh.”
“No I won’t, I’ll clap
and say ‘Yay’.”
“But I don’t want you
to clap,” he insisted.
It soon became clear
where we’d been going wrong. He didn’t want any fuss. In fact, like most human
beings, he didn’t want an audience – hence the walking halfway down the section
to pee behind a rock.
The potty was
dispatched to the bathroom where he moseyed off and did the business before
emerging moments later proudly brandishing the potty in one out-stretched hand.
“Ohhhh good boy,” I
praised though gritted teeth while keeping an eye on the contents lurching up
the sides of the bowl.
“Jelly bean,” he
wasted no time in demanding the prize.
Of course his brother
and sister soon got in on the act and every half hour Master Three was taking
himself off before they lined up in front of the pantry.
This had to stop before
they lost all their teeth.
I explained to him
that he would no longer get a jelly bean and this was conveniently forgotten.
The next time he
thrust the filled potty in my face, grinning from ear to ear, I displayed my
usual enthusiasm.
“No, I don’t want you
to say ‘Good boy’.”
“What do you want me
to say?”
“Nothing.”
Right.
We agreed on a high
five (once the potty was safely out of the way) and a sticker for the forgotten
sticker chart which had become part of the furniture.
“But what about my
jelly bean?”
“I can’t give you a
jelly bean every time you go toilet. Your teeth will fall out and your brother
and sister don’t get jelly beans when they go.”
This was begrudgingly
accepted and the lone pirate was soon accompanied with some buddies.
But all this was only
dealing with number ones. A new pair of undies or Pull Up full of number twos
is not what you want.
“Well look, when you
go poos in the potty mummy might give you a present,” I sighed after cleaning
up another mess. I happened to have a small petrol tanker tucked away
somewhere.
He soon produced the
goods and loved his new truck.
The next day he did it
again and I was stoked with our success.
Until, “Where’s my
present?” he demanded.
I made my bed with
that one.
