You just haven’t learned it yet baby

So! Who’d like to hear about poo-poos and wee-wees?

That’s all of you, yes?

~ ~ ~  tumbleweed  ~ ~ ~

Feh. Well – brace yourselves – because I’m going to tell you anyway.

Today – sound the trumpets – we sent the Microbe off to nursery wearing pants.

And now kindly un-sound them – because I have every expectation of said pants being returned to me imminently in a plastic-bag-of-shame. When it comes to matters physical, the Microbe is not what you’d call an early adopter. This is probably the combined result of him being an idle little Hodor and his parents following the lazy (ahem) relaxed path over such things. Until recently I’d been labouring under the misapprehension that nursery would introduce some magic regime to take care of potty training for us – but they’ve turned out to be as relaxed as we are.

This is not to say that we’re 100% useless parents. We decided to skip potties but have gone so far as to train the boylet to do wee-wees on the toilet at home – and he literally begs to be taken to public toilets every time we’re out (especially if Helena also happens to be going).

But none of this gleeful loo-visiting has stopped him from continuing to wee and poo in his nappy with gay abandon. It’s as if the two activities are entirely unconnected in his mind. So, a couple of months back, when nursery suggested that he was ready for pants, I decided that he wasn’t really and switched him to pull-ups instead.

However this week G had one of his token, biannual Victorian Dad outbursts. These usually take place around 3am and involve extensive muttering along the lines of

This boy… mumble mumble… mollycoddling… mumble mumble… pull himself together…. mumble mumble

My reaction to these is usually a large amount of put-upon groaning, followed by desperate googling to find out what everyone else is doing. Hence I have discovered that pull-ups are widely regarded to be futile and ineffective. So – as of today – the boylet is panted up.

God only knows how he’ll get on. My expectations have not been helped by these ominous convos…

“I’ve got BIG BOY pants!!”
“Yes! Aren’t you a lucky boy? And now that you’re a big-boy, where will you do your wee wees and poo poos?”
“On the potty!”
“Good boy! Because we don’t do wee-wees and poo-poos in our pants, do we?”
“But… Harry sometimes does wee-wees and poo-poos in his pants”
“Oh. Well that’s because he has an accident. Harry doesn’t *want* to do it in his pants”

(following morning)

“Mummy, what are these?” (picks up multi-pack of dinosaur pants)
“Those are spare pants for nursery”
“Can I wear them?”
“No, you’ve already got Raa Raa pants on. Those ones are just for emergencies.”
“But if I have an accident in my Raa Raa Pants…  can I wear the dinosaur ones?”
“Er… yes – but you’ll miss out on your sticker if you have an accident”
“…and Mummy will be VERY proud of you if you keep your Raa Raa pants clean all day.”

I swear I could actually see his cogs whirring to calculate the relative excitement of a sticker vs deliberately disgracing himself, so as to get changed into DINOSAUR PANTS.

Sigh. Bring on the plastic bag of shame.



About Susan Flockhart

Bonsai lady-geek and blogger. I can hardly recall what I used to blog about pre-microbes, but these days I generally ramble about motherhood, nonsense and whatever's going on the world of tiny people
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