Day one started so well.
We had the chat, he picked out his pants, he sat on the potty, he smiled and laughed, he seemed really excited about the whole event. He even ran to the toilet and stood on the step ready to ‘pee like daddy’ within half an hour. Nothing happened and he made a puddle a few minutes later as he brushed his teeth, but I gave him a chocolate button anyway. He’d tried.
This morning there were lots of encouraging signs. At 10.30am he told me before he needed and sat obligingly on the potty while we sang the pee pee song. Nothing happened, he made a little puddle a few minutes later but then he ran over and finished by peeing right next to the potty. So his aim’s a little off – he got another chocolate button for effort.
As the day went on, I abandoned pants and trousers (it was a roasting hot day) and he seemed less and less tolerant of the potty. He was happier to stand on the step by the toilet, but always after a puddle and never with any success. By the end of the afternoon he was just peeing freely with no attempt to tell me until afterwards and no chance of sitting on the potty.
My friend and her wee boy came over for a couple of hours after lunch. He was clearly too distracted to think about it at all – but after hitting his pal and being placed on the naughty step he made a huge puddle and ran straight to the toilet. That was tricky – he was supposed to be in the middle of a punishment but I wanted to reward him for at least trying to make it to the loo. He got another button and was allowed back outside under strict instructions to behave himself.
The worst part was 4.30 to 5.30. By this point I was knackered. My bump was tender from all the bending down to clean up puddles. My patience was wearing thin. We were on the seventh set of pants (even though he’d been naked half the day) and it was still a good few hours until daddy was home. I thought if we made a pizza together the time would pass.
Right in the middle of the messiest food prep ever, he suddenly stopped, looked at me guiltily and looked down. Instead of taking the three minutes to finish off the pizza, I started cleaning him up, and the chair, and the floor, and washing my hands, and washing his hands, and preventing him grabbing the half made pizzas and slipping and maybe shouting just a little bit too much. I eventually got the pizzas in the oven and was trying to put the kitchen back together when I glanced at the packet and realised I should have cooked the dough for ten minutes first.
So I pulled everything out again and made up two more bases and flung them in the oven while the wee man did some more peeing on the floor. At least he grabbed the mop and tried to clean it up. We then had to smear on more toppings and as I put the pizzas back in the oven he had another accident. After the requisite 15 minutes the pizzas came out looking great but with the dough clearly undercooked. By now it was 5.30 and I was about to completely lose it, so I reheated some spag bol and sat next to him checking Facebook while he happily munched the lot. And peed. I know I shouldn’t have been checking Facebook but I just needed to remember there was a whole world outside my urine soaked house.
After playing outside a little longer, I checked my watch, congratulated myself on reaching 6 o’clock and ran his bath.
He’s wearing a nappy in bed – I’m not even going to attempt dry nighttimes for at least another fortnight. I’ve mopped all the floors, tumble dried all the pants, made sure there are easy meals ready for tomorrow and now I’m going to bed.
Read part 1 here.