If you are reading this expecting a post with advice on how to potty train your child, I’m afraid you’re in the wrong place.
This is the prequel to potty training. This is about the stage that happens after your child is capable of saying the words ‘urinate’ and ‘defecate’ but before they can actually be arsed to do it in a civilized way.
In the spirit of prequels, let’s call it The Rise Of The First Class Nappy Changing Menace Begins.
Because I don’t know about you, but I find changing my two year-old’s nappy a battle of epic proportions.
It starts with him trying to hide. Only we live in a really small modern house that doesn’t actually have any nooks and crannies, so the best he can manage is to slowly back up against a wall with his eyes closed and try really hard to blend in.
Then when I do manage to wrestle him onto the changing mat which, two years and several rolls of duct tape later has disproved the theory that plastic doesn’t biodegrade, the miniscule fraction of time it’s possible to get him to lie still for can only be recorded by an atomic clock.
Instead he writhes around emitting a high pitched nasal whinge which sounds like someone slowly letting the air out of Kenneth Williams.
Then there is the leg slamming. This is a boy who demands you ‘kiss it better’ if you so much as look at him in a hurtful way, but who will willingly risk broken bones in an effort to avoid having a clean arse.
I think he has Ass Changing Deficit Disorder, but the doctor refuses to accept it as a genuine illness. He wouldn’t even Google it, and he Googles everything. But believe me, the boy is way up there on the spectrum.
The obvious solution is to attempt actual potty training. The trouble is he has no clue about his own bowel behavior, a precursor I am advised is necessary if you don’t want your carpet to end up looking like a tufted dirty protest.
When I repeatedly ask if he needs a wee or poo I am greeted with an expression of pure incomprehension. I may as well be asking if he understands the Schrodinger’s Cat experiment. For him, his boxers are both full and empty at the same time, but it’s only when you peer inside can you know for certain. The big giveaway is if his nether regions smell of poison and dead feline.
Plus I get the sense that he actually likes being so close to his own effluent. He’s spent a large portion of his life to date sitting on it, sleeping on it and bouncing up and down on it. He loves to squash his Rectal Revels (so called because you’re never quite sure what you’re going to get when you open his nappy).
Maybe he genuinely doesn’t want to be parted from it? I worry that the moment he sees one of his movements successfully deposited in the bottom of a potty he’s going to try and make friends with it. Like a favourite comforter toy from which he refuses to be parted, he’ll only be able to sleep if it’s curled up next to him.
Perhaps he’ll take it into school for show and tell, standing in front of his classmates like a miniature Gillian McKeith, only significantly more qualified to talk about matters of a digestive nature?
In the meantime I guess I’ll just have to content myself with the fact that boys are allegedly slower to toilet-train than girls. And perhaps that’s true? After all, half the adult male population still haven’t learned to put the seat down. And my hubby still practices going to the toilet for an hour every day, whereas I’ve got it down to five minutes……