This page contains a Flash digital edition of a book.
Mum’s talk... by Sarah Reid


So once again we have a potty in the bathroom, and another downstairs just in case. The trainee is interested, but sceptical - primarily because nothing seems to happen when she sits on it. She’s perplexed, because in our cheerful and positive rhyming coupleted toileting book it seems that no sooner have the girls placed their little bottoms down than hey presto! The potty is fi lled and treats are distributed.


But it hasn’t been quite so simple for our little apprentice. She sits it out for a good few minutes then scrambles up to look at what she has produced. Watching her face fall when she sees it’s still empty can be a bit heartbreaking.


So we play it cool, with vague promises of treats galore when a deposit is fi nally made. Unusually, it’s not the promise of a treat that has captured her imagination. It’s the whole toileting arena. She was always a fan of hand- washing (despite what our windows and walls might suggest), so she has embraced this part of the process wholeheartedly. On being asked to try the potty she announces that she’ll wash her hands fi rst, which is a sign of either scrupulous hygiene or mad toddler logic.


Anyway, after splashing around in


warm soapy water for a few minutes, the idea of sitting still on a basin is hardly an appealing one - even if it does mean she can wash her hands again at the end of it all.


Then she decides she wants to come with me whenever I take a trip to the toilet, practically shoving her foot in the door as I try to close it on her, and following me in, silent and earnest. I’m not sure about this, but the books


42


say it’s a good way of getting her used to the idea of ditching nappies. The books may very well be right, but I’d like to know if those authors have really had the indignity of being applauded by a delighted two-year-old after using the toilet. Then being off ered a choice of treats, none of which is a glass of wine.


But miraculously, one evening as I am coming home on the train my phone pings on the table in front of me. There’s a blurry picture, which at fi rst I can’t make out. Then I realise it’s a close-up of a potty. With contents. I resist the urge to whoop with delight and thump the table, but I can’t quite wipe the triumphant smile from my face and sit grinning silently instead. In the heady excitement I put my phone back on the table without fi rst getting rid of the potty picture. The man beside me edges away slightly.


You can follow Sarah on Twitter @sarahereid7


To advertise in thewire t. 07720 429 613 e. the.wire@btinternet.com


Page 1  |  Page 2  |  Page 3  |  Page 4  |  Page 5  |  Page 6  |  Page 7  |  Page 8  |  Page 9  |  Page 10  |  Page 11  |  Page 12  |  Page 13  |  Page 14  |  Page 15  |  Page 16  |  Page 17  |  Page 18  |  Page 19  |  Page 20  |  Page 21  |  Page 22  |  Page 23  |  Page 24  |  Page 25  |  Page 26  |  Page 27  |  Page 28  |  Page 29  |  Page 30  |  Page 31  |  Page 32  |  Page 33  |  Page 34  |  Page 35  |  Page 36  |  Page 37  |  Page 38  |  Page 39  |  Page 40  |  Page 41  |  Page 42  |  Page 43  |  Page 44  |  Page 45  |  Page 46  |  Page 47  |  Page 48  |  Page 49  |  Page 50  |  Page 51  |  Page 52  |  Page 53  |  Page 54  |  Page 55  |  Page 56  |  Page 57  |  Page 58  |  Page 59  |  Page 60  |  Page 61  |  Page 62  |  Page 63  |  Page 64  |  Page 65  |  Page 66  |  Page 67  |  Page 68  |  Page 69  |  Page 70  |  Page 71  |  Page 72  |  Page 73  |  Page 74  |  Page 75  |  Page 76  |  Page 77  |  Page 78  |  Page 79  |  Page 80  |  Page 81  |  Page 82  |  Page 83  |  Page 84  |  Page 85  |  Page 86  |  Page 87  |  Page 88  |  Page 89  |  Page 90  |  Page 91  |  Page 92  |  Page 93  |  Page 94  |  Page 95  |  Page 96  |  Page 97  |  Page 98  |  Page 99  |  Page 100