Toilet training.
I mean.
Could I invert those two words and end my post right there?
Folks, I'm a strong woman. Salt of the earth, you might say. I make my own chicken schnitzel. Ride my bike up mountains. Cleanse, tone AND moisturise.
But toilet training?
It's got me beat.
Granted, I've been luke warm about the whole concept since day dot... I think I thought perhaps my daughter might just realise somewhere around 1.5... 2... 2.5... that she could ditch the nappies, adorn some knickers, climb merrily up onto the toilet seat and do her business without any fuss or commotion from her parents.
But my daughter likes nappies.
And I don't like pottys. If you'd been around me over the last 12 months you would have heard me mouthing off about how I would never be seen dead with a potty in my living room, the way you see some dreadful people do... how my daughter would learn to climb onto the toilet in an adult manner right from the start.
Nope, I'd never be seen dead with a potty at my place.
Right...
But if you'd have dropped over to my place two nights ago you would have been confronted with not only the sight of a blue, plastic potty perched glamorously in the middle of my living room but also a. large. coil. of.
poo. sitting merrily half a metre away on the polished floorboards like an artistic piece of still life. And I suppose it was, really.
Toilet training.
One step forward, two steps back is the adage, isn't it?
And my daughter does manage to hit the potty some of the time. When I remember to place her on it and walk away ordering her not to get up until she's done something, she doesn't. I leave the room and come back... half an hour later... to see daughter-o wedged into that potty seat, still dedicated to the task. "I did it! I really really did it!" she proclaims afterward, and I give her accolades with gusto like she just discovered a cure for the common cold.
But for every successful aim, I'm wiping wee off the floor. Off the rug. Off the couch. The kitchen chair. .. and let's not even talk about where I find poo...
I know she'll get it one day.
I've introduced a reward chart. With stickers. And lavish drawings of the prize my daughter will be awarded once she achieves her 'performance target.'
Just this week, she eared enough stickers to get the most lauded prize of all... yes folks, my daughter peed and pood on that potty every day for two weeks to earn herself a packet of
Dora the Explorer Underpants. $15? Are you kidding me? I've bought Calvin's cheaper than that!
But it worked. She brought them home and proudly showed them off to her dad like I'd bought her a necklace from Tiffanys.
I'll let you know how we go. And the day we finally ditch the nappies I'll have a celebration and you'll all be invited. We'll burn the potty. We'll run around with Dora the Explorer underpants on our heads. And maybe I WILL buy a Tiffanys necklace. For me, that is. Lord knows I'll deserve it!
Have YOU been through this? Got any tips? Stories? Funny anecdotes? Tales of horror? Do share!
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