April 15, 2013

To Wee Or Not To Wee

The only problem with all this undie-wearing business is the wedgies . . .
And so we come to the most interesting of toddler milestones (if your definition of 'interesting' includes potential disaster, frequent embarrassment and involves poo in places other than a loo) . . . . toilet training.

Once again, because of the seven year age gap between my children, I have blocked out forgotten what we did when it came to toilet training Jack. I seem to remember there was The Day Of The Ten Wet Underpants which led to the The Month Of Pretending It Will Go Away. But inevitably, he got toilet trained and, at nearly ten years of age, seems to be managing quite well (apart from the apparently hilarious pastime of farting in confined spaces).

Francesca was very keen to start sitting on the toilet last year before her second birthday because she wanted to copy her little friend Piper who is six months older. There was plenty of enthusiastic toilet-sitting but zero actual wee action. Nevertheless, we set up a potty in the corner and, because it was summer and her preferred outfit was a pair of gumboots only, she would take herself off to the potty periodically without the complication of, y'know, clothing to unbutton, unclasp, unzip, pull down.

Her first actual wee on the potty was met by thunderous applause from the whole family and of course, standing ovations were compulsory for every wee on the potty for quite some time thereafter.

However, in the manner of many busy working women who barely have the energy for rotating the cap off a wine bottle (how on earth did we cope with the whole corkscrew business!?), taking a toddler out with only a thin layer of cotton between her unpredictable bottom and the many flooring surfaces of the outside world was all too hard. I decided we would go commando at home and wear nappies whilst out and about.

This is what I like to call the Magical Toilet Training Breakthrough Formula (as opposed to the Lazy Parent Hit & Miss Approach). When the number of times the toddler successfully does a wee on the toilet, exceeds the number of accidents, they are ready to face the outside world.

And so it came to pass. Toilet training - tick. And thank God for that.

Francesca has been in Big Girl Undies for two months. I feel it's now safe to block out the memory of another milestone and continue coping with day to day life, including the unscrewing of wine caps which will now be deserving of my full focus.

Next stop? Big Girl Bed. But that bus won't be coming along for quite some time. I'm not ready to allow a 2 year old full access to the entire house at all hours. That would require more wine than I am currently capable of unscrewing.

I'd love to hear your 'wee' stories. Are you in the middle of toilet training? Been there done that? Or just in the process of screwing up the courage? Share!

Postscript 29 April:
Now I need some advice too. Number ones on the toilet? No problems. But doing number twos is apparently very very scary and the one time we did it, we cried the whole way through. One could be forgiven for thinking that releasing that poo into the toilet was the equivalent of handing over one's first born son to King Herod! I've heard this is common but I've also heard of four year olds who 'hang on' till they get a nappy on and, oh Lord, save me from a constipated child who can build an entire virtual city in Minecraft but can't take a crap on a toilet. Tips and tricks required please.

The Wedgie - it's all about wearing it with attitude. There's a lesson in that for all of us I think . . .

April 12, 2013

These are the days my friend

Thank you daylight savings for your lovely six month stay. We were sorry to see you go with your balmy evenings and late sunsets and toddlers that slept till 7am.

How absolutely bonkers is it that putting the clocks back ONE MEASLY HOUR can turn your whole world upside down? For the first week, I feel like I had a daylight savings hangover. Morning wake-ups at 6am instead of 7am and afternoons that dragged on like a Logies telecast.

"Can it really only be 6.30pm?" I moaned every day last week when my body was expecting to have already eaten dinner and would have been anticipating the joy relief tender moment when I lay Francesca in her cot to sleep. At 6.30, she was still demanding to eat 'gwapes in the barf'!

My body clock caught up with itself this week. John and I decided we would take advantage of the early starts and Indian summer weather by taking the kids to the beach this morning at 6.30am, followed by brekkie at our local cafe.

I'm so glad we did.

The water was warm and calm. While the kids played on the beach, John and I struck out with long strokes across the bay - him shearing through the water with strong freestyle, me setting a more languid pace on my back. We duck-dived to the ripply sand on the bottom and shot like arrows through hazy green and blue back to the surface. Such a beautiful start to the morning.

These are the days my friends. You know . . . the days. The ones we'll look back on and think "Life was bloody good."

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