Sounds like a new play by Sir Alan Ayckbourn, doesn't it?
I really, really, really hope the following makes at least one of you laugh. Because running through my mind whilst all of the events below occurred last night was one, solitary thought.
I hope to god this makes for an entertaining blog entry, or else I will have gone through all this for NOTHING.
Let me begin at the beginning.
Day #7 of potty training, and Mr Jamie had had a good day. Only one accident at nursery, and no (thankfully) standing-in-potty-wetting-self incidents. Pretty impressive.
I gave him his bath, put his night time nappy on (far be it for me to be so presumptive to get rid of that at this stage, even if we have had a full week of dry night time nappies. I don't take kindly to being pissed on in the middle of the night. Golden showers have never been my thing), read him his story and tucked him into bed.
"Night night sweetheart. I love you."
"Love you Mummy."
Yes, yes, it's all very heartwarming.
It didn't last.
30 minutes later I got the call over the baby monitor.
"Mummeeeeeeeeeeeeee. I need to do a wee."
I walked upstairs to the loft. "Come on then. You can take your nappy off yourself and sit on your potty. You don't need me up here."
"Will you watch? I get you your book." And he ran round the end of the bed and presented me with Jane Green's latest, before going to sit himself down and wee on his potty.
Potty emptied, hands washed, nappy back on. "Night night, now time to lie down."
"Night night Mummy."
15 minutes later.
"Mummeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. I need to do a poo."
I sent Neil this time, on the grounds this was surely a quality male-bonding exercise. Not sure Neil saw it quite that way. He returned back downstairs 15 minutes later to inform me that a poo had indeed been produced, a new nappy applied (I believe there may have been a small amount of 'follow through' prior to the potty being reached) and Mr Jamie was now lying down in bed, bladder and bowels evacuated, ready to go to sleep.
15 minutes later.
"Mummeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. I ned to do a poo."
I ignored him. "He can't need to do a poo, can he? He had one when you went up with him." Neil shrugged.
I gave it 10 minutes. His screams reached hysteria.
"Jamie, for goodness' sake. You have had a poo. And a wee."
"I need ANOTHER poo."
"Fine. Come on, nappy off. Come and sit on your potty."
And he did. And he pooed. Impressively so. We emptied the potty, washed his hands, and put his nappy back on.
"Night night time now then sweetheart."
"I need another poo."
"WHAT?! But you've just had two." (I should point out at this point, just in case we weren't already well within the realms of Too Much Information, that all of these poos were perfectly 'healthy' in nature. No sign of a stomach bug or anything similarly sinister.)
"I need another one."
"Fine." We went through the same routine. The next specimen, if such a thing were possible, was even larger than the last, the potty barely containing it. Mr Jamie looked at it proudly before disposing of it down the toilet. Hands washed, nappy back on, into bed.
"I need to have another poo."
I wasn't speaking to him by this point. I watched silently as he ran into the ensuite, sat on his potty ... and produced ANOTHER FUCKING POO. (In case you're keeping count, that's FOUR since he'd been put to bed about an hour and a half ago.) He picked up his potty, turned to pour it into the toilet ... and dramatically slipped and fell on his face, the contents of said potty immediately spreading themselves all around my bathroom.
"There a wee as well."
"Yes, thank you Jamie. I can see that."
I surveyed the chaos. My previously relatively clean bathroom, now spattered with urine. And a poo ... at least, there WAS a poo. Where the hell had the poo gone? It was huge, for god's sake. How could I possibly lose a poo?
I knelt down on my hands and knees, frantically searching for the rogue poo. I was NOT leaving a poo loose in my bathroom, particularly in the height of summer. (I like the implication there that I might have considered it if it had been winter. I wouldn't have done. Probably.)
And thus it was, whilst on my hands and knees, wading in urine, head under the toilet cistern, having finally located the fugitive poo ... that Mr Jamie, having, behind my back, produced his FIFTH poo of the night in his potty, stood up, attempted to carry his potty over to the toilet, slipped in his own piss ... and hurled both his potty and the contents of his potty onto my head.
Knee deep in wee, a potty on my head and a poo in the middle of my back.
Tell me, why precisely do they talk about potty training as though it's a GOOD thing?