Ah toddlerhood, the time has come. Your house is now marinated in a light coating of urine, with the aroma of hidden poo adding that extra zest. Yes. Bare naked poo. Lying on the floor, among your velvet throw cushions and hardcover books.
You are now a person who has staged a very involved Ted Talk in your home, titled, ‘How to know when the poo is coming’.
You now know that children can develop a deep, dark phobia of letting their poo drop into the toilet and you spend your days chasing your child around the house, imploring him to let go of the steaming fresh bounty in his pants and trying to understand how any human could want a juicy bog smeared between their cheeks. You’ve even stooped to showing your child how happy you are to flush your own poo away. ‘Look, there’s Mummy’s poo! Yes, thank you, it is a big one—I worked hard on it. Now let’s flush it away! Bye bye poo poo!’ Ahh, if your old drinking mates could see you now.
Don’t be afraid of toilet training. No, you won’t become more patient or understanding. You won’t suddenly develop a tolerance for turd. You won’t develop any insight into how your toddler’s brain actually works. But you will gain at least one fantastic story you can share for years to come.
Like this one. It’s based on a true story, told to me by a friend. Oh, how I wish it were mine.
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We were in the throes of toilet training and my little boy was doing well with the wees and we were putting in a lot of work for the poo on the potty.
I was in the kitchen cooking dinner when my boy walked in, completely naked, brandishing a small square of tissue smeared brown.
It’s a funny thing when you’re simultaneously over-the-moon-proud because your child not only defecated but tried to wipe his own bum—and also frantically anxious about how accurate his wiping has been.
I ran over to the potty and saw that he had indeed backed out an enormous, adult-sized log into the potty. The poo dance followed, naturally. Because we celebrate poo. Then I jogged off to get some wipes to clean up his hands, bum, legs and, curiously, a little bit on his neck.
By the time he was clean and I’d washed my hands for the fourth time, I turned to get the potty and saw it was empty.
Now I might be a busy, harassed, overworked mother, but even I wouldn’t have imagined a huge turd that wasn’t really there. I doubted myself for a fraction of a second before I told myself that I’d just spent a good few minutes cleaning the skid marks off my child. There had definitely been a poo.
I turned to my child and asked him where it was.
‘Where did your poo go, mate?’
I was once a successful, professional woman. I did presentations on end-of-year financial reports. I supervised a team of twelve. Never did I imagine I would one day utter those words. And yet there I was.
He looked at me and said he didn’t know. I asked again, a little more manically this time.
‘Darling, please think. Did you put your poo somewhere?’
He shook his head again. With just the two of us in the house, I had to take his word for it. My two year old was my only ally against this mounting emergency. I had to keep him onside.
My eyes swung wildly from wall to wall, searching for any sign of the missing poo.
A missing poo is not something you can write off with a shrug and an ‘Oh, well’. A missing poo must be found. Poos don’t get better with time.
I HAD to find this poo.
I began ransacking my own house—pulling up rugs, looking behind curtains, trying to piece together a timeline that would help me pinpoint the moment it went missing, trying to work out the logistics of how it possibly got out of the potty, visualising it flinging itself out of the bowl and rolling to freedom.
But if it had rolled anywhere, surely it would leave a trail. The floor didn’t show a mark. How would it even start to roll? There HAD to be an accomplice.
I ran through the possible suspects.
It wasn’t me. I’m fairly sure.
My gut told me it wasn’t my son. He showed no signs of enjoying this dung hunt and he’d been by my side the whole time. I’m his alibi.
There were no other humans in the whole house.
But … we weren’t alone. There were two dogs.
I turned to look at them. One: lazing on the carpet, ear flicking in the breeze. The other: sitting up. Eyes locked on mine. Shame written all over his face.
I picked him up and the fumes rolled off him in waves, smacking me straight in the nose.
I just made it to the back door before I dry-retched in horror. I dropped the dog outside and slammed the door shut. His guilty little face stared through the glass. He knew what he’d done.
He’d polished the whole thing off. Licked the bowl clean. A steaming meal for one.
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So when you’re worried you don’t have any interesting stories anymore because you’re just a mum, remember: there’s always toilet training.