As I mentioned in a previous blog Emma has started her potty training and she’s doing exceptionally well with it…at school. On the weekend we’re either too busy or I’m too lazy to ask her every 15 minutes whether she needs to pee or wee. She also plays games with me that she doesn’t seem to play with Teacher Jen.
I’ll ask if she needs to go to the toilet and she’ll say yes. We then make our way to the bathroom, singing the toilet song…
Off we go for a wee or poo,
is it a one or is it a two?
If it’s a one we’ll let it stay,
If it’s a two we’ll flush it away
Off the come the pants and the cute little knickers and then we take a seat on the throne…and then we wait and wait and wait and wait. Emma must have watched dad on the loo because she pulls all the faces and even makes the sound effects, but nothing happens. “Emma, do you need to do anything?” I ask, patience wearing thinner than a pantyliner. “Yes, I need to play with Lalaloopsy.” Oh Kay. Not the answer I was hoping for but what happens when you ask an open-ended round about ass question like that. I lift her off the loo, start pulling panties up, getting legs ready for pants, AND THEN SHE’LL WEE.
OR I’ll ask “Emma do you need to go to the toilet?” She’ll look at me and answer “No mama” while looking at the damp spot getting bigger and bigger…I have enough stress during the week. I am adamant I’m not putting myself through tyrant turds and wayward wees.
The good thing is is that Emma suffers from constipation. I don’t mean it like that, but at least when there is a turdle in the bath it’s easy to scoop up and flush away. Also we know the faeces face well so we have ample time to get her to the loo. But lo and behind last night while in the bath Emma stood up, got into her stinky stance and I could see she was ready to drop the mother load. “Emma do you need the toilet?” I asked, “Nou!” she said (just like that, not ‘no’ but ‘nou’) pushing even harder. “If you sit on the toilet it’ll be easier. It won’t be so sore.” “NOU!” she yelled.
Of course as a mother I took no notice, popped her out the bath and popped her on the loo. I started rubbing her tummy and I could see that that seemed to ease the pain a little. So I rubbed a little more. After a while I stopped but was quickly told to carry on, which I did. And then it happened. An explosion of epically apocalyptic proportions. The toilet bowl looked like a family, no a clan, of Caramello Bears had been mutilated, however the smell was not as sweet.
Emma had obviously become quite fond of THAT turd. Can’t blame her really. They had been constant companions for days, even weeks, looking at the size of it. So as she was about to flush it down she gave a little wave and said “bye-bye Mr. Poo”