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My potty hell
As adults, we think we're more sussed than our children. We’re bigger and uglier and we made them, for goodness sake. We know when our offspring can manage a beaker. We decide that they're 'ready' (ie, we've had our fill of small, writhing bodies in the marital bed) to move into a room of their own.
And so the logic goes: this child no longer needs nappies. He is ready for a potty. Transmit thoughts to toddler's brain: 'Your parents have decided that, should thou need a wee or something more serious, thou shalt scamper towards thy plastic receptacle and remove thyself only when such unsavoury business is finished.'
'You're having a laugh,' decided my twin sons (then two-and-a-half). We were sharing a holiday cottage with another couple and their two-year-old daughter, already infuriatingly reliable in matters of personal hygiene. We took potties and vast piles of extra clothing. I spent three-quarters of that holiday stripping and hosing down children and stuffing putrid garments into the washing machine.
A sensible parent would give up and rush out for emergency nappy supplies. Life is too short to stalk your toddler, demanding, 'Do you need the toilet? Why are you walking in that FUNNY WAY?' Wise parents would then postpone the advent of toilet training until their child appeared to have a grasp on potty etiquette. Not us, however. 'We shall conquer,' we decided. 'Just got to be patient, that's all.'
Some kids practically train themselves within a few days. The worst it gets is an odour-free tinkle down the trouser-leg, which dries within three seconds. This is not our story. For the ten months following that holiday, we tried every loo-related tactic. 'Well done!' we'd cry, clapping madly when one of the boys managed a few pathetic droplets in the potty. When accidents happened – which they did, eight or nine times a day – we tried being pleasant ('poor love'), slightly terse ('please use the potty next time, sweetcakes') and downright livid ('you did that deliberately. Look at it).
Naturally, other parents are experts on this subject. You are advised to reward a pottied wee/poo with a chocolate or other such goodie. But what if you are out in, say, the library and have neglected to bring your stash of prizes? Does your child deposit one behind the non-fiction/historical shelf, just to spite you?
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