The Poo Slug

We make all sorts of allowances and break all sorts of rules for our Third Child. Despite being three years old, she is – and always will be – our baby.

And she knows it.

And exploits it.

Despite regularly using the toilet and potty at daycare for most of last year – completely without my knowledge, mind you – now that I have lost patience and taken away Baldy’s daytime nappies, she has decided that toilets are for fools and there are much better places to find relief. Like the floor outside her bedroom. And the backyard.

Yesterday after three hours in the park, and my watching her like a hawk, there had been no accidents. When we came home and I asked if she wanted to do a wee on the toilet, she gave me a sideways glance and simply said ‘No thanks mummy.’

Pretending not to watch her, I pottered around doing mum stuff, like dishes and Facebook. When I heard her run to her bedroom and start digging through the drawers for a nappy I knew she needed to go.

So armed with a bag of lollies I walked into her room and bribed her: four lollies for a wee on the toilet. Perhaps not the best parenting technique, but certainly one of the most reliable.

She did her wee and got her lollies.

I was going to need more lollies, but perhaps this was going to be easier than I thought.

Not long after, she approached me with a strange look on her face.

‘There’s a bee!’ she said, frightened.

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘On my finger.’

I looked closely at her outstretched finger and my stomach lurched. ‘That’s not a bee sweetie. That’s poo!’

She looked at her hand and back at me, her eyes big and I could see I had about three seconds before she completely lost the plot.

‘Why do you have poo on your finger?’ I asked.

‘It’s in my bottom,’ she said.

Ah.

She bent over and yes, there was part of a poo squished between her butt cheeks. But where was the rest of it I wanted to know.

‘Bend over,’ I said arming myself with a whole packet of wet wipes. She bent forward and promptly cracked her head on the corner of the wall, a huge welt immediately appearing. Trying to comfort one end and wipe the other, we finally managed to clean her up, reapply knickers, and send her out to watch TV.

Meanwhile, I needed to find the rest of the poo.

‘Where were you when you did the poo?’ I asked.

She pointed. ‘On the couch,’ she said.

Awesome.

I checked the couch. No poo.

I checked the rug in front of the TV. No poo.

Soon I was running all over the house – the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen – looking for the 

poo. Nothing.

I soon figured out where it was.

‘Arghhhhhhh poooooooo,’ she moaned like was facing the worst ever demon zombie monster ever.

The first bit was just the prelude. Now it was time for the main act.

As she walked towards me, little poo slugs fell onto the floor. Splodge. Splodge. Thank god it was on the tiles.

I grabbed her under the arms and ran to the nearest toilet, holding her as far in front of me as my pathetic upper body strength would allow. I put her on the ground and started to take her – incredibly full – underpants off, only to realise that she had put them on sideways so she was squeezed into them like a crotch hugging corset.

The only way to get them off was to make her shut her legs which she had as wide open as John Wayne after riding a horse for a week. ‘Shut your legs,’ I kept saying.

‘Nooooo,’ she kept howling.

As I forcefully moved her feet together so I could pull her undies down, the giant poo started breaking apart. We both watched as a giant poo slug slowly slimed its way down her thigh, leaving a brown trail the length of her leg. She howled and tried wiping it away, which merely transferred said poo slime to her arm. More bits were falling out onto the floor, and we were both crying, one from humiliation and the other from insanity and laughter.

I finally got the knickers off, and quickly decided that they were beyond redemption. The big chunk of poo went in the toilet and the knickers went in the bin. The child went in the shower.

Later that night when her Daddy asked her about her day, she merely smiled at him and said ‘My poo went in the toilet.’

Technically true but so far from the actual truth, I could have cried.

Toilets are for wimps

Why Mums Lie To Themselves

I will forget how hard it was. I will forget the anxiety that crept up the walls, that permeated our lives.

The last six or so months will shrink in my memory into a few weeks. It will lose its potency.

The Mop, despite my fears, despite the trips to the doctors and hospital, despite her claims that she will 'never ever wear knickers ever'... is out of nappies.

Last Thursday, after some sage advice from my mother's group, I asked the Mop to collect up all her nappies and give them to her baby sister.

She bundled her remaining Huggies into her little arms and plonked them with gusto into Baldy's room. Knickers were procured. The potty was placed in the family room.

And that was that.

Except it wasn't that easy. It never is.

It's only been six days, yet I am already beginning to forget the months of begging her to consider using the potty, the toilet, the garden... wherever. The memory of my cheeks burning as I changed nappies on her three year old bottom at playgroup while kids less than two trekked in and out of the toilet. The false start.

The frustration and anger at how she would agree to wear knickers, but then refuse to use the toilet and hold it all in, for hours and hours, before wailing for her night-time nappy to release it all. Just to do it all the again the next day.

Then the intense anxiety of the early nappy-free days where she would pace around the room, eying the potty, clutching her bottom, like a caged lion eying its master. She would pace for hours, constantly moving, potty always in sight. She needed to go but she didn't want to go. As the hours ticked by and her pacing grew more frantic, I would feel the anxiety in the room heighten until I couldn't breathe.

Then she would finally, desperately rush to the potty, face contorted with fear and discomfort and she would pee forever. Then she would smile and stand and declare 'I did a wee' and point proudly. She would insist on tipping it into the toilet and flushing. All the fear and stress would dissipate.

Until the hours ticked by and the anxiety began to rise again.

I will forget all of this.

It’s easy for mums to have somewhat romanticised memories of major milestones. ‘My baby slept through from six weeks’ or ‘she toilet trained before two with no accidents.’

Sorry, but that’s bullshit.

Even in the rare cases it’s true it doesn’t help other mums: new mums who are struggling with night time feeds at 18 months, whose children still don’t sleep through at four.

The only account I tend to believe is from someone living through it at that precise moment in time. It’s only when you are knee deep in it that you can see it for the challenging and draining experience it is. It is a gift given to parents that time dulls the pain of nocturnal awakenings, that distance allows us to believe it was easier than perhaps it really was.

No one would ever have more than one child if we remembered things with any degree of accuracy.

So this is how I know that I will forget how trying the past few months have been. By the time Baldy Baby is ready to toilet train I will be telling myself that I convinced the Mop to give up her nappies one day and that was that.

But I don’t intend on having more babies so I don’t need to fool myself it was easy. It’s been bloody difficult. And it is far from over. Yes, she is out of nappies but she still won’t use the toilet. I have become one of those mothers who arrive at your house/playgroup/daycare with a potty under my arm. The fashion accessory of the modern mum.

I have written it all down now. So even if I do forget, please someone direct me back here when I am flailing around in a couple of years, despairing at how much harder it is to toilet train Baldy.

Because all I had to do was ask the Mop to give away her nappies. And that was that.

Wasn’t it?

Now What? Confessions of a Wee Obsessed Mum

'That's a very pretty dress,' Hayley the sonographer said to the Mop. 'Let's tuck it up a bit so we don't get anything on it.'

The Mop lay on the adult-sized table, looking small and vulnerable, yards of pink taffeta tucked up under her chin.  She looked at Hayley with her enormous grey eyes.

'Are you the doctor?' the Mop asked her. 'You are, because you're a girl.'

I'm glad that at the tender age of three the Mop knows that girls can do anything and she doesn't assume that doctors have to be men.

The sonographer just smiled. 'I am going to take some pictures of your tummy. I will start by putting some of this jelly on it.'

The Mop sat up a bit to watch the goo being squeezed onto her tummy. A towel had been tucked into her Beauty and the Beast knickers. Knickers I only put on her because I knew that she wouldn't wee.

We were in the bowels of the hospital. So far from daylight that the air was thick with the silent hum of recycled air. We were getting an ultrasound for the Mop's bladder and kidneys, checking if there was a medical reason for her extraordinary inability to wee.

When toilet training, most mums put knickers on their kids and pray that they won't wee. I have gotten to the stage that I hope she will wee. I am aching for an accident, begging for a puddle on the floor.  The Mop sometimes won't wee for 12 hours. Daycare is concerned. The family is concerned. It raised a red flag with my GP.

I am concerned, because if there is no medical reason, that only leaves psychological reasons. You have to love it when the doctor uses the word 'neurosis' about your three year old.

I couldn't stop yawning though. 'Mummy needs a coffee,' I said offhandedly to the Mop.

Mop turned to the sonographer. 'Do you have a coffee for my Mummy?' she asked politely.

We both laughed. 'That's very thoughtful of you,' Hayley told her. I didn't get a coffee though.

'Is that a TV?' the Mop asked pointing to a blank screen on the wall.

'It is. Would you like to see the pictures of your tummy?' The sonographer  pulled out a remote control, turning the screen on. 'That's your wee,' Hayley told her pointing a large black section.

The Mop regarded the spotty black and white images for a few minutes before lying back and closing her eyes. 'I like Dora better,' she announced.

After a very thorough examination the sonographer went to discuss the results with the paediatric radiologist. The wait felt excruciatingly long as the Mop had been fasting for hours and was desperate to go home.

It was all clear. No observable obstructions. Just a bladder like a steel trap apparently.

I wonder if that showed up on the scans.

'Is my tummy okay?' asked the Mop.

'Your tummy is fine,' I reassured her.


Now I just have to figure out what to do next.

Please Ignore My Daughter

‘Come in,’ I said to the man who had arrived to give me a quote for a painting job. ‘Please ignore my daughter in the corner.’

‘What? Why?’ he asked.

‘Oh,’ he said.

The Mop was sitting stark naked on the potty in the middle of the family room. Next to her a roll of toilet paper, her undies and her dress. She clutched her favourite toy, tears in her eyes.

She had been there an hour.

I should have known better than to allow a tradie to come by at 5.30pm on a Friday. It’s not a time typically known to be particularly relaxed in most households with small children. Dinner was burning on the stove, the baby was screaming because she was hungry, the Bombshell was sulking because I wouldn’t let her start painting five minutes before dinner. And my husband was nowhere to be found.

The Mop, in her own good time, had finally decided she should start using the potty. It’s been going ok, except for the bit where she had diarrhoea for a few days. Somehow, good fortune had it that she was always in a nappy at the times her bottom exploded. Like bedtime. Awesome.

Except today, when she ran inside to do a wee on the potty, her bottom decided to explode. I didn’t realise this initially, as I was making meatballs and couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

‘I’m afraid of the stick,’ she wailed.

‘What stick?’ I asked. ‘Did you step on something outside?’

‘No,’ she moaned. ‘The stick, I don’t like the stick.’

‘I think she means the stink, Mum’ the Bombshell said helpfully, from where she was reclining next to the potty. ‘She smells pretty awful,’ she added.

‘Then move!’ I groaned. I went and sat down next to the Mop. She looked so miserable. ‘Stand up honey, and I will wipe your bottom,’ I told her. She shook her head. ‘I don’t like the stink’, she said.

‘Honey, poo always smells funny. It’s just that you haven’t noticed before because it’s been in a nappy. Trust me though,’ I added, ‘Mummy has noticed.’

I tried to pull her up off the potty, and she started screaming hysterically. ‘Well you can’t stay there forever,’ I said.  ‘Yes I can,’ she told me. ‘I want a nappy,’ she moaned. It’s a bit late for that, I thought.

I knew the painter guy was only minutes away at this point and decided not to risk hauling her off the potty and having her have a poo melt-down all over the walls (although, they were going to be painted in a day or two). So I went back to the meatballs.

Every few minutes I would check in with her. ‘Can I wipe your bottom now?’ I would ask. ‘No. But can I have dinner?’

‘No dinner on the potty,’ I said.

The doorbell rang and I invited the painter in. He said hello to all the girls, including the naked one on the potty, which I think was awesome. I hate it when people ignore my kids in their own house.

Still she sat there. She was waiting for Daddy, she said. I wondered if she thought Daddy would magically take the stink away. I had already sent him two text messages warning him of joyous task that awaited him when he got home. The second one simply read ‘she’s been on there for half an hour. HELP!’

I took the painter outside to show him downpipes that needed painting. The roll of toilet paper got stuck on my foot and it rolled outside after me. He bent down and picked it up for me. Now that’s service.

Finally, after an hour my husband, the poo saviour, walked through the door. The Mop burst into tears. ‘I did poo. It stinks,’ she told him. He went to change out of his white work shirt and I took the painter out the front to look at more downpipes.

A few minutes later, with a new nervous tic in his eye, my husband reappeared with a clothed and nappied Mop. ‘Got a tummy upset, has she?’ was all he asked.

Something like that.

Waiting for the Wee

For no better reason than I am clearly a masochist, I decided this afternoon it might be a good time to put Miss Curly Mop in knickers.

Let's be clear - she has shown no interest whatsoever in the toilet.  To the contrary, she literally runs screaming in the opposite direction when I stick her on there.  Potty, toilet, big, small - doesn't matter.  She's not interested.

But overhearing a conversation this morning by a Mum whose girls have both been toilet trained well before their second birthday, that she felt the best time was between 18 months and two years before they become wilful and opinionated rang a few alarm bells. 

The Mop is two in a week.

She's already wilful and opinionated.

Looking into the crystal ball at her pre-school, tweenie and teenage years, I can't see her getting any better. 

Guess this is it then.

So upon waking from her nap, I bundled the Blonde Bombshell and the Mop into the car, and headed to a local department store to purchase some dinky little knickers.  If it wasn't totally weird and inappropriate I would show you a photo of the cute undies we ended up getting.  Little checks and ruffles and kitty cats and monkeys with stripes.  She was so thrilled, she insisted on putting a pair on in the middle of the shop, and I then had to contend with the possibility of getting nabbed shoplifting some size 2s.

Turns out it was incredibly easy getting her out of her nappy and into knickers.

The problem, it quickly became apparent, is getting her to NOT poo and wee in her knickers, because she is still terrified of the potty.

By some stroke of luck, the girls' daddy happened to be home mid-afternoon when we ceremoniously took off her nappy and pulled on her first pair of Big Girl Undies.  She and her big sister then went about the business of being kids and started playing and dancing, while hubby and I sat on the couch, eyes glued to her crotch, waiting for the inevitable.

'Should I roll up the rug?', he asked.

Eventually we got bored of waiting for the wee and started making dinner.  Before long, we heard the thunder of little feet pounding through the house.

'Here we go,' I muttered.

'Mum, the Mop pooed in her new knickers,' the Bombshell announced breathlessly. 

'Excellent,' said Daddy.

'I smelled the poo and then I saw the brown on her undies and then it started coming through,' the Bombshell told me helpfully.

I heaved myself off the chair and followed the Bombshell to the Mop's room, where she was already climbing up onto the change table.  I picked her up, letting her stand on my arm rather than have her squidgy poo butt sitting on my bump and we all went to the bathroom.  She started to shriek. 

'Nooooo Mummy. Noooo Mummy, not nice. Not nice,' she hollered trying to escape.

'I need to put your poo in the toilet darling, that's all,' I told her.

'Can I see it?', ask the Bombshell.

The Mop had already done a runner by this stage and I literally had to catch her by the ankles and pull her ponky knickers off as she grabbed at the carpet and tried to pull herself forward on her tummy. Thank god she hadn't done a wee as well.

With the Bombshell being the only interested party present, I scraped the mess into the loo.  The Mop poked her head around the door.  I convinced her to come in so I could wipe her bottom and she promptly assumed the position that the Bombshell is known for.  Feet and hands flat on the floor, legs spread, bum in the air, waiting expectantly.  Good to see she is learning something useful from her sister.

Bottom wiped, we all peered into the loo.

'Do you want to press the button?' I asked the Mop.

'Noooooo', she shrieked and ran off.

'I'll do it Mum,' the Bombshell said.  Thanks darling.

About 20 minutes later, with Pair Number 1 soaking in the laundry, and Pair Number 2 proudly being worn, we sat down to dinner.  I could see the wee coming before the Mop even realised what was happening.  She stood on her chair and looked at the puddle with a puzzled expression.  It began dripping on the floor.

'Ace', said Dad.

Her little face looked mortified. 'Uh oh' she said. My heart just went out to her.

While Daddy tried to get her to sit on the potty ['Nooooo Daddy, nooooo'] I wiped and disinfected the chair and floor.  Even the promise of a piece of chocolate could not convince her to sit on the potty.

'I'll run a bath', said Dad.

So at the end of Day 1, we have two pairs of little knickers soaking in a bucket, an unused potty in the family room, and four more pairs of new undies for tomorrow.

I know the rules: be persistent and consistent, never get upset about accidents, keep praising all effort, but does anyone have any other advice?  It would be great to the get the Mop out of day time nappies before the baby arrives, but I also don't want to force her if she's not ready.