It is day five of potty training and I am close to relapsing towards a packet of Pampers. Days one and two were novel, a challenge and a touch exciting as I introduced the Toddler to the potty. We began well and I was confident that third time round it would be a breeze and my potty training expertise would come into its own. As is always the way with the whole ghastly, laborious exercise, just when you take a giant leap forward, you rapidly find yourself scuttling back again.
Broadly, there are two schools of thought with potty training. There are those who sensibly leave it until the sun is shining warmly and the toddler is two and a half and understands more about what they are doing – most importantly they can be bribed easily with smarties or stickers. Then there are those like me who just as the clock strikes midnight on the second birthday, whisk off the nappy to make room for a very smart pair of Thomas the Tank Engine briefs. My view, albeit fairly old fashioned and probably adopted from my mother, is simple. If he can ask for a biscuit and a drink, then he is quite capable to ask to use his potty. I also simply loathe nappies, particularly on a child that can walk. There is also the small matter of cost. I have estimated The Toddler’s small derrière has used up more than five thousand nappies over the past two years costing me approximately £793. This is what I have to remind myself when I’m mopping the kitchen floor for the umpteenth time that day.
So, we continue with the task asking him, ‘Do you want to use the potty?’ every ten minutes. When we finally get a hit, we cry out in jubilation, rejoice with a round of applause and loud cheers. We encourage him to the potty using every tactic we can think of, including perching the older children on it, if necessary. This successfully makes him become extremely protective of his new throne. In true toddler style, he takes the potty training experience one step further. He places his PlayMobil figures and his collection of dinosaurs on the edge of the potty and even tries to encourage the border terrorist to perform. Finally, when I appear from the bathroom he applauds in delight and runs to get a sticker from the drawer which he places on my jumper. “Good girl Mama,” he cries. The message is getting through albeit slowly but I feel we have got quite a way to go. Wish me luck.
