Potty training day 3: Back In The Game


Yes, she was fully clothed and no, she didn’t actually do anything. But there was definite bottom to potty contact and that’s the main thing, right?

There were cheers, tears (me, the sheer relief!), frantic phone calls to the family to mark this historic moment and even a Ravanelli-style football celebration from the hubster.

Having tried anything and everything to get her to sit upon her Peppa Pig-adorned throne, what master stroke did we pull to finally get her on there? Well, we didn’t, to be honest. Actually, she put herself there because she was having a strop. A cracker of a strop too.

I’m not quite sure what had sparked today’s strops. Maybe it was the fact that I had failed to realise that when she asked for her sandwiches to be cut into triangles she had actually meant squares, or the fact I had rather irrationally asked her to wear shoes when we went outside. Or maybe it was because I had politely asked her not to use her sister’s head as a racing track for her cars. She had also spent around 20 minutes today screaming blue murder because she wanted me to take her coat off. (Erm, she wasn’t wearing one.)

It was one of those days.

Anyway, long story short, the Toddler was in the kitchen shouting about something or other when her dad (who is often far more optimistic about the whole potty training thing than me) declared he was going to go and sit on the potty. “NOOOOOOOOOO”, yelled the Toddler. “I’M GOING TO SIT ON THE POTTY.” And off she stomped, turned around and defiantly plonked herself there.

And there, right there, was a perfect representation of parenthood. Low lows where nothing seems to be going right, interspersed suddenly and inexplicably with the highest of highs. Her little face, all red and angry one moment, was suddenly beaming with pride, chuffed to bits but also slightly bemused that the simple act of sitting on this weird little white pot seemed to have sent her simpleton parents into a wild hysteria.

It only happened once today  but that doesn’t matter. It was a small glimmer of hope and the boost that these simpleton parents needed. It was the shot in the arm we needed to carry on the good fight tomorrow. She will do it, she will get this and, best of all, I probably won’t be sending her off to uni in 16 years time with a bumper pack of Pampers under her arm. Oh the relief.


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