Nappies

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.