Today was the day. We spent last night prettifying the downstairs loo for Dexter (yep, a poster of Dave the Minion now watches me when I pee), and tightening stair gates so he has a straight line access to it from the living room. I wrapped dozens of pound shop toys in tin foil as rewards for successful wees and I even popped a few magazines next to the porcelain throne. We were ready, we were primed, and first thing this morning a tweet was sent out to confirm it… Today, we were Potty Training.

When I peeled off his nappy this morning and he romped through the house in full on nudey-bum mode, I smiled to myself. I took him to one side and explained that today was going to be extra exciting. He’d get to try out the big boy toilet, there would be toys, there would be high-fives.

He seemed up for it.

Within 5 minutes of waking, he used the little step to mount the loo and sat there with mummy’s iPad for 30 minutes. 30 minutes?! I kept watch from the hallway as he whizzed through episodes of Thomas the Tank and other Netflix offerings. He got so comfy, he had to be coaxed down!

10.30am rolled around and despite lots of straining and effort, we hadn’t yet had to flush the loo. Having finally convinced him that some breakfast might help make a wee in his tummy, I bought in a potty to prevent last minute dashes across our cream carpet. After just one slurp of orange juice I watched him execute the perfect wee in his potty without a drop spilled.

Proud mummy was an understatement. I even took an iPhone pic and sent it over to Craig. Yet, whilst gloating about how awesome my child is on Twitter, two more wees followed; one hit the side of the sofa, another sloshed across laminate in the hallway.

By midday, I was still mostly pleased. One out of three wasn’t bad. A 33% success rate on Day One is good right? I asked him every five minutes (without fail) if he wanted another tinkle, and took him with me for all my own trips to the loo so he could see it done by an expert.

Then disaster.

After a particularly long stint reading books atop the toilet, I helped him down and watched my little naked dude climb the stairs to his sister’s nursery. She had been deposited in her cot 5 minutes before and was busy rattling her bars and screaming in protest, perhaps Dex could calm her down, and maybe snuggle in beside her for a nap… besides it was cute listening to him soothe her from my vantage point at the bottom of the stairs. Giggling ensued and the odd bump and gallop across the floorboards that usually indicates happy children.

Five minutes later, nappy in hand, I followed Dexter up to pop him in his own room for a nap of his own. I had already decided naps and bedtimes would need a nappy. Dex is in a coma when he sleeps and that little inkling that a wee is brewing would be lost within dreams of fire engines and Norman Price.

What followed next almost made me turn on my heels and run. I wondered where Broadchurch was filmed and what it would be like to fling yourself off that infamous cliff. Dex had been wearing wellies (he wears them everywhere, like they’re his uniform) and his tracks were everywhere. All over Heidi’s bedroom, the hallway… our bed…

It’s not his fault. He must have been holding in his No2 all day. Stomping it around in his wellies (to the obvious delight of his baby sister) must have been simply too irresistible. He’d finally managed the Big One, and without a nappy! He was probably expecting an extra big tin foil gift from me, and not the desperate little scream I offered him.

Half an hour later, I scrubbed and washed, and gagged and cried, with Dexter sat in a bath squealing about his accomplishment, and Heidi decided what her big brother did wasn’t so funny after all, in fact, she was now downright furious and screaming “baby-expletives” at him from her cot.

I don’t bring you this story to embarrass my child or make you cringe. I bring it to you because potty training is bloody hard, exhausting, dirty and thankless. I’d have given my right arm to have had someone roll up their sleeves and dip a sponge in that warm and soapy water with me this afternoon. Yet given Craig was at work and I was alone with a cloying wafting mess that needed to be addressed that minute. So it was down to mummy, unhelpfully cheered on by both the perpetrator and his miniature accomplice.

 

So I’m dedicating this post to the many millions men and women who have successfully dumped their last disposable nappy in their black bin, and to the tens of thousands who have also whipped out Vanish Oxi Action and scrubbed their carpets this afternoon. I salute you, and will be beside you in spirit when you next find a wad of poo behind your sofa. You hold my hand, and I’ll hold yours, and we can do this thing without self-medicating with gin.