This evening, my eldest son came into the kitchen looking forlorn. I asked him what was wrong and he said:
“Oscar threw a poo at me.”
And with that, I decided it was time to talk about potty training.
It should come as no surprise, to those who read this blog regularly, that this next parenting milestone has turned into a complete farce.
Some people reading this may feel that I should reconsider sharing the poo-flinging incident on the blog for fear it will come back to haunt him when he’s older. However, I feel that this could be a teachable moment. For example: should he irritate me in his teenage years I will be able to teach him that is not advisable by printing out this post and handing it out to his classmates.
I have spent months trying to convince him to start potty training, explaining that he needs to learn for when he starts nursery.
He didn’t care.
I’ve told him that he gets to wear super-cool pants.
He didn’t care.
I’ve told him he’ll get a treat, every time he uses the potty.
He thought about this for a little while and ultimately decided: he didn’t care.
The only person he will remotely be convinced by is his older brother. He wants to be just like him – to the point where he repeats his sentences straight after Oliver says them and pines after him at the window when he leaves for school.
Oliver has had some success with the treat angle (mostly because every time Oscar gets a treat I relent and give him one too). I have a feeling, by the end of this, I will have a kid out of nappies but two children bordering on the verge of Type-2 diabetes.
Back to this evening…
I went to check on the poopetrator and found him innocently sat on the potty, whilst the offending turd was sat on the living room floor. I asked him what happened and all I could gather from the guilty party was that: ‘Offer did it’.
‘Offer’ (Oliver) denies this and I’m inclined to believe the good one. Yes, I said it.
He didn’t even try to keep the pretence up for long, for fear of losing favour with his hero. Instead he cut his losses gave me a ‘sowee’ and went back to basically not giving a f**k about being in my good graces.
This child will be the death of me.
I was going to attempt to put together a handy guide on how to deal with potty training but, as you’ve probably gathered by now, I haven’t a damn clue.
If you want advice, ask Oliver – he seems to have life figured out at four-years-old.