We are a month into potty training the nearly three year old Hulk, it’s gone so smoothly, I’ve not even felt the need to tell you about it. There have been accidents of course, but none of note until this week. He is doing much better than his sister, she took to potty training like a duck to brain surgery. I am slightly ashamed to say that her bladder is about as strong as mine, she still struggles not to piss herself when she laughs, and is well aware that she is not even allowed on the trampoline until she has totally emptied her “wee-bag”.
Like any self respecting toddler, the Hulk has sometimes been too busy to stop and go for a wee. He has bigger fish to fry, and they are largely Thunderbird shaped. But unlike his sister, after a week of potty training, he managed to go 6 hours without weeing. He can hold it in. He is still learning the limits of his bladder capacity, but after a couple of weeks we are able to go all day in the same pants. It’s mostly going to plan.
Until poo-o’clock. Poo O’clock occurs every day between about 6.00pm and bedtime. Mostly, I allow myself to be slightly intimidated by poo o’clock. I bow to its superior power, and I respect it for its predictability and its steady and reliable presence in our lives. But for some reason, on Wednesday I decided that I was not to have my life dictated to by my son’s bowels. I decided that I was no longer hiding within the confines of our house after 6pm like a teenager with an ASBO. Instead, I was going to Matalan. I’m a busy woman. I have shit to do, (pun absolutely intended) I had to buy some shoes for a child who’s feet grow at a similar rate to Pinocchio’s nose.
So the shoe department of Matalan is where you find us dear reader dear heart. I have just fitted some size 13 canoes onto the expansive foot of my 4 year old, when the Hulk pipes up with the largely unsurprising piece of information that he has “done a poo in my pants”. We abandon the shoe department and start making strides towards the nearest member of staff, who races with us to the staff toilets. The Diva starts shouting “code brown, code brown!!!” at the top of her lungs all the way there. Sadly for the gloriously smiley sales assistant, as they are staff toilets, she is forced to wait patiently outside and listen to the following debacle:
I seat the Hulk on the toilet. He sees the poo filling his pants and starts screaming that “it’s on my legs, its touching me, I don’t like poo, I don’t like it, its yukky” He throws himself around, nearly falling off the toilet in the process. I attempt to remove the trousers. Despite a total lack of fruit and veg in his diet, he has managed to do a shit the consistency of vegetable soup. By this point, his legs and my hands are now covered in his diet defying shit. The Diva starts making a fuss about the smell. So she opens the door. The ever patient sales assistant gets the full view of me bending over a writhing toddler, wiping shit off the floor with toilet roll. She politely moves behind the door. I manage to remove his trousers and pants. I chuck the pants in the “special lady bin” and try to salvage the trousers. Alas the insides are absolutely coated in sloppy toddler shit. It is at this point that I realise that I only have my handbag, and not the change bag. No wipes. No spare clothes. No nice hygenic bags to put things in. Just a few biros, some receipts and an old box of raisins. We are in dire straights. So I clean him up with water soaked toilet roll. Throughout the operation, the Diva wafts the door open and closed, whilst singing Taylor Swift songs and dancing a lot and watching herself in the mirror on the back of the door. The sales assistant politely pretends that there are very interesting things written on the staff noticeboard behind the door.
I make the Hulk do a naked walk of shame back to our car, where I think I have spare clothes. He looks suitably embarrassed as we walk the length of Matalan with his dancing sister running ahead, like the whole experience is one enormous audition for High School Musical. We locate some Minions pants, and half and hour behind schedule, we return to the shoe department to purchase the canoes. I buy him a Paw Patrol DVD as I frankly feel sorry for him, and his shifty demeanor is breaking my heart. Guess who is forced to serve us? Bless her she was still smiling. Unlike me.
Respect Poo o’clock people. It’s got serious weapons in it’s arsenal. You won’t win.