After a month of trial and error, extreme resistance to attending childcare, Thomas knickers stashed in my handbag and immense trepidation at the mere thought of leaving the house without 7 changes of size 3 clothes, two full packs of wipes and a bottle of gin, Chippie is now well and truly toilet trained.
He is doing most remarkably, in fact. I’m terribly impressed.
He has also, at the age of 3, almost grown out of his car seat. Not to mention his tantrum-induced desires to climb out of it, and his ability to undo it whilst we’re hurtling along a freeway in torrential rain. He usually performs this little trick in a moment of extreme pissedoffedness.
Him and me.
Having to be out of the house this afternoon for an open for inspection, we figured dragging all three kids to large local shopping centre again would be a bit of fun. This time, it was to purchase a car seat upgrade for the Chipster.
We had intentions of visiting one of the larger outlets that stocked such items, located inside humungous shopping mall. However, we bypassed one as we walked from the carpark to the entrance, and popped in there instead.
Whilst Grumpy chat to the sales girl, who informed us the rules had changed and the seat we had intended to purchase was a no-no, and went through the various alternatives, I tried to prented that the 10 year old testing out the rocking chairs and the 8 year old attempting to restrain the too-big-for-the-Jolly-Jumper 3 year old into a Jolly Jumper were not my children.
The giggling got louder and suddenly – “ARGH! MUM! Mummy!” Chippie panicked as he came running towards me, knees together.
Our sales assistant had wandered into the back room. To find a new seat in its packaging, not because she risked being hosed with pre-schooler wee. So we had to find her to ask if there was a spot for piddling nearby.
Nope. That spot was, of course, conveniently located inside the colossal place of shopping, and right next door to another outlet we had initially intended to visit.
I hoisted Chippie onto my hip and ran! I was fairly convinced I was going to end up with wee running into the band of my jeans and down the outside of my leg.
We barged throught the door of the parents room, scattering small children and overloaded prams, dropped Chippie and whipped his pants down.
We’d done well. No wee on the Mummy! Amazing. And a first.
Sat him on the miniature toilet, and was hit in the chest with a stream of urine.
Thankfully, his doodle moved with force of the liquid expulsion and he got my jeans as well.
And this is why I don’t understand why all the parenting stuff tells you to take a change of clothes for your toilet training kids when you leave the house, and never suggest you take a set for yourself.
To date, I think I’ve needed a change for me more often than I’ve needed a change for them …