mummy is always tired

How many adults does it take to change a three year old?

If it is my three year old, then the answer is four. This is the scene that greeted me last week – the sight of four grown ups cajoling a three year old into some leggings. Meanwhile my three year old is doing what she does best – yelling, screaming, kicking and being an all round prima donna.

But let’s rewind for a moment. Why was I seeing this? Well, I received a phone call. Our youngest had a bit of a tizz and wet herself – she didn’t want to go for a wee in the toilets because there were boys in there. Clearly my child is a coy 19th century throwback and decorum is the buzz word du jour. So whilst she didn’t want to be seen ‘going to the toilet’ she decided it was less embarrassing to just piss herself in front of everyone.

And remember what happens when our youngest gets into a tizz? Yes – that’s right, she then throws up. And me being a bad mother had failed to refill her bag with a change of clothes. So, the phone call was a plea for more things because not a stitch was to be found in the whole of the nursery…that she would wear.

When I arrive she is like a cornered animal and any irritation I’d harboured for her diva antics just evaporated, there she was, having a meltdown with one legging leg flapping in the air as she’s trying desperately to kick the other leg off. If that wasn’t ridiculous enough, she’s doing it with no pants on. Pants. I’ve forgotten to bring her clean pants. And we don’t have time to stop off home and get some more as we have to pick up the older one from school. You’ll have to go commando I tell her. She looks at me as if I’m mad, of course she does, she has no idea what going commando means. But she agrees and off we go; pants problem solved.

So back at home I rifle through her bag, if there are no clothes in it why does it always seem so full I think. Ah. I see why. She has stuffed it with paper and stolen objects from nursery, pilfering is another of her favourite past times. The child has ASBO stamped on her somewhere, I just haven’t found it.

I dutifully fill up her bag and vow to myself I won’t be so slack in future.  I cram in four pairs of pants, tops and leggings. There. Wee and vomit your way through those in a day young lady. I dare you.

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The Bath Poo

Our youngest decided to potty train herself a few weeks ago. No doubt she was fed up of hiding in corners or behind curtains to secretly squeeze one out and then deny it despite the trail of smell quite literally following her around.

I proudly announced to a fellow mummy how our youngest had the wees sorted in just a couple of days. Clearly that was a mistake because less than three hours later, the God of anti smugness struck and the result was nothing short of a pint of wee over the dining room chair – a wooden chair no less. Who knew aged pine chairs would be so absorbent – like a sponge to water. As such I am not saying which chair it was because what house guests don’t know won’t hurt them.

So…apart from that, there have been few other liquid accidents. However, she’s been reluctant to extend her potty abilities to include solid packages. She’s been leaving it and leaving it, only to get to day three absolutely bursting – quite literally and no amount of raisins or dried dates could flush through the blockage.

No. Silly me. Clearly what was needed was a lovely, relaxing bath. Preferably when your sister is in it as well and when it’s only mummy on bath duty. And so here we were, both girls splashing around when our youngest suddenly jumps up clutching her bottom screaming ‘I need a poo!’

Quick! I’m panicking now, the thought of it scooping up out the bath doesn’t appeal. My hands? No judging by what’s rapidly making an appearance they won’t be big enough. Ok what’s next, the toy boat? No, too many nooks and crannies to clean out after. I’ve got it – one of the stacking cups, number one, the largest of them all thank goodness – shame it wasn’t the number two, but that would have been too perfect.

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The one in which we talk about wee-wees and poo-poos

Joy to the world – our eldest has now been potty trained.  When I say potty trained, I mean during the day and up until yesterday just number ones.  Overall the transition was smooth but perhaps this was due to the chocolaty rewards that ensued after each potty captured wee-wee.  To be honest, it wasn’t an experience I was looking forward to, in fact I did everything I could think of to put it off, not because our eldest wasn’t ready it was probably more that I wasn’t.  I didn’t relish the thought of trying to memorize where every child friendly toilet in the town centre was, or having to deal with any ‘accidents’ in public places – who wants to peel off wee soaked pants in the middle of Sainsbury’s?

Although I needn’t have worried, in those early few days, my eldest demonstrated a bladder of steel.  Almost the whole day would pass before any sign of liquid gold being released.  By day 4 though the skill had been mastered, I’m not sure we did everything ‘by the book’ though, I don’t think chocolate covered mini biscuits are recommended rewards but whatever works, right?  ‘This is easy’ my other half jubilantly praised, ‘we should’ve done it ages ago’ (our eldest is the last of our ‘group’ to be potty trained by some distance), ‘hmmm’ I replied – and just how many poos and wees have you had to clean up I thought.

Success aside, there were obviously hilarities that occurred – though at the time hilarity wasn’t the word that sprung to mind.  There was the time after a long Sunday walk where my eldest ran into the house and couldn’t quite reach the potty in time – the result? Wellies filled to the brim with wee – ‘they’ll dry out’ said the other half – 5 weeks later they are still languishing in the utility room and even after this lengthy time I’m not quite sure if it’s the smell of urine or rubber that is most prevalent.

The time after that there was an incident with the ‘number two’.  Needless to say, the other half was nowhere in sight – he was actually out on the town, cleverly having planned Christmas drinks out with friends on Christmas Eve no less, but this is a WHOLE other story! So our eldest felt the urge and pushed before realising oops, there’s no nappy and started screaming as she realised that the offending number two would dirty her new Peppa Pig pants.  So alarming was this thought, said pushing stopped before the full deposit had made its way out.  Half in and half out, what do I do? I spent a panicked few seconds running around thinking about how to tackle this one, I was quite tempted to use one of the dog’s poop bags but thought that might send out the wrong message to my already distressed child.  But after countless wet wipes and cuddles later the situation was under control.

The one public accident we had was on an aeroplane.  That’s right, why have an accident on the ground, when you can have one thousands of miles in the air and where the only toilets are ones that are tiny and shared between hundreds of other people…..and usually engaged.  Anyway, this was my time to sit back, after all I had our youngest on my lap, let’s see how daddy copes with this one I thought. And actually, he coped really rather well, quick thinking and reflexes saw him whip a nappy under her bottom to catch the excess, a quick wipe down and a change of clothes later, all was calm again.  Although, we apologise if someone sat on a rather damp 28c seat back.

That brings us up to date and to yesterday which saw the first number two successfully (and safely) deposited in potty.  Hurrah!

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