Some Day I'll Be Saturday Night: The Week That Never Ends

Well it has been quite the week on the rodeo of life that is parenting small children. The universe seemed to delight in making the stars align in such a way that an astrological apocalypse was created, if you believe in that sort of thing, interfering with my week as a working mother of two young children.

Let me walk you through it:

Monday

As we were on the 2.5 mile round trip to school, the wheel of the pram (and sole transportation device for the highly time pressured morning drop off) snapped beyond repair leaving it to limp sadly along the road with an air of Del Boy's Reliant Robin. Having coaxed it back down the hill and waved my husband and the The Toddler off to coax it home, I headed into the office to start my working week. As I settled myself down to work, opening my laptop and passing some light chit chat with my colleagues about the weekends events (theirs lavish and fun-filled, mine protracted and potty-based) I answered the phone to a rather distressed husband who, upon returning home had discovered that we were imminently about to be revisited by all of our son’s contributions to the family reunion in Pooland and was requesting the number of a "decent drain man". I have quite the little black book, clearly.

Tuesday

I woke with renewed optimism as the drains had been remedied and a new wheel was winging its way to us in the post. This was extremely fortunate as it was a day when optimism would be crucial as I had to run the gauntlet that is swimming lessons; solo. Now you may think that I am being overly dramatic and I am sure that there are parents in their droves who routinely deal with two small children in a swimming pool without too much anguish whatsoever. However I am not one of them. Dealing with two hungry, grumpy, slippery dictators who are reluctant to leave the fun of the pool never mind help in their drying and dressing is akin to wrangling a lubricated, enraged octopus into a leather one piece. Twice.

In all honesty though, the ordeal of swimming was merely the cherry on the top of this day following our impromptu voyage into town after the school drop off. Mixing a borderline potty trained toddler who has a penchant for trying out all the local facilities available to him with the first real cold snap of the year (rendering his bladder overactive and thimble sized) was, perhaps in hindsight, a touch cavalier but you will recall that I was feeling somewhat optimistic that morning. Having merely vacated the third premises a matter of moments earlier, the toddler emitted a shriek for "potty!" at such a pitch that it would have been injudicious of me to ignore his plea. The nearest convenience was (inconveniently) four floors above and only accessible by a single lift which moved at the pace of a fatigued snail so by the time we reached our destination the toddler was shedding clothes at a terrifying rate of knots as he ran towards his target. I too, ditched everything I was carrying in order to airlift him onto the receptacle in time.

We made it. My phone? Not so much.

Wednesday

Wednesday was a fiasco from beginning to end. My mother routinely treks across the country to provide childcare for us on a Wednesday thereby allowing me to hold down some form of employment without bankrupting ourselves on nursery fees. Today however, an ill judged petits four after lunch with the girls on the preceding day had resulted in a fractured front crown and a trip to the emergency dentist which meant I was left to partake in a business call with my youngest attempting to sit on my head. Totes profesh.

Thursday

Thursday was doomed before it began. I returned from a late hospital appointment the previous evening to the news that The Toddler was lurgy filled, spiking a temperature, intolerant of everybody and everything and, as a result, had taken to his bed at an unprecedented early hour. We settled on half hourly checks (never ones to overreact) and my mother called at half past ten to relay her concerns of meningitis. Needless to say sleep was sparse. It was determined prior to his waking that a GP visit was essential so the husband delayed his own GP duties to drop the Big One off at school to allow me to partake in the ridiculous system that our medical practice operates whereby patients must present on the morning to be seen as part of a triage system. With a two hour wait ahead of us (and a mandatory training course on the other side of the country beckoning) I was a touch frustrated to see the toddler terrorising the rest of the waiting room as "Spider Max" showing no signs of being anything other than brimming with health and vitality.

Damn you child.

Friday

Husband had to go away for the weekend and I was entirely understanding right up until the point that there was a double danger nap. At five o'clock. Enough said.

Saturday

Today is still ongoing and whilst I generally like to remain open minded, being that this day started at four thirty and has involved liquid poop I feel that perhaps I should just submit and wait until the stars shift or Mars does its retrograde thing.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Let It Go: The Subtle Art of Potty Training

This week has involved exponential loads of laundry, protracted periods spent on unforgivingly cold and hard tiled flooring and a multitude of poetic musings on the potential emotions that faecal matter may experience when finally reunited with their long lost family. For this week we have been potty training.

I will admit that I have been putting it off for a while. 

I have, in fact, previously denied my son access to a toilet having cruelly met his inaugural utterance of the phrase "POT POT!" with "Good boy for asking but you might just need to go in your nappy this time". In hindsight, a bit harsh but in my defence, we were on a motorway and I really don't like pulling over, or driving, or having urine stain my shoes. However, as he started to verbalise his preference for the porcelain over the junior Tena lady on a more regular basis the proverbial bullet had to be bitten.

The Holy Grail

The first step was to go underwear shopping for some "Big Boy Pants" that he couldn't possibly bear to part with should they become sullied by some rogue activity from his nether regions. Superheroes seemed to be his preferred theme but he was reminded that these gallant avengers were at his mercy. His poop was their nemesis.

"There is nothing to fear but fear itself" AND poop. Obvs. 

We were timid at first, choosing to loiter around the house with The Boy roaming trouser free and flaunting his pants to any passing visitor/delivery man while we punctuated each sentence with "Do you need to go pot- pot?“ and" Remember that Batman will need to go in the bin if the poop gets him" - a lesser known fact applicable to all masked avengers. We would hear his strained vocals, witness his straight legged stance and immediately enquire as to whether he needed a vessel into which his imminent deposit could be made. When he would immediately answer in the negative, we would play on his love for his novel wardrobe addition by decreeing them to be lost forever should they fall victim to his bodily excretion. An assessment that would induce him to instantly reabsorb any faecal matter which maybe making its way towards the light.

After 48 hours or so we became emboldened by the lack of reverse banana hammocks and started to reintroduce more layers on the bottom half. This bolstered us with false confidence as we played loose and free with the olfactory nerves; lifting the toddler in the air and taking deep, almost meditative, inhalations to assess the situation on a regular basis. Sure, we were accident free but we had had to imprint a map of public toilets, anonymous department stores and friendly establishments whom we could access at a moments notice should the need arise, and it did. With a disturbing and relentless frequency.

At least he dressed for easy access... 

As my work days approached and the baton of childcare was about to be passed to the Mother ship, The Boy's stomach had started to bloat to the point that he resembled an off season Santa who was prone to overindulgence and was yet to don his whiskers for the winter season. Yet, still that turtle refused to emerge from its hiding place. We were all on tenter hooks.

We were all living on the edge

In the end it took a communal visit to the bathroom with his beloved mentor/sister and the decision to coach one another through the birthing process. When it finally happened, he frightened himself by turning to look at what had been lurking within and was startled to find the potty straining to contain what must have constituted half his bodyweight not five minutes earlier. Party poppers were discharged with wild abandon, anthemic songs were chanted and everyone hugged amid slaps on the back and tears of pride being wiped from their smiling faces. We had done it. I felt like lighting a cigar.

I returned to work with a spring in my step and when I received a phone call the next day from my mother to relay the magical story of how The Boy had reenacted the event that very morning, I was beaming with a pride so overwhelming that I had to relay the news to my unsuspecting work colleagues. An act I immediately regretted as I witnessed their faces adopt what can only be described as a mixture of dismay and disgust. My mother's pride was so palpable that she later confused my enquiry into how their day was going with a request for a more detailed assessment of his faecal matter. A request that she happily and rather illustratively attended to as a matter of priority.

Communications took a dark turn

We are now four days into no accidents and two poos down. Whilst I would be cavalier to declare Gotham to be safe from imminent harm I do believe that the masked avenger is definitely getting his strut back.