It seems that you aren’t a proper mummy blogger until you’ve done a post about a horrific pooh incident. I’ve steered clear of this so far although be glad, be very, very glad, I wasn’t writing this blog during toilet training, one of the most testing experiences of my life, covering an eighteen month period in which I was always accessorised with a bucket of hot soapy water and every sentence began “do you need a weewee?” My local twins club sometime ask me to be the cassandra of potty training at local talks, where I terrify parents and am the misanthrope of any ‘potty training in a week’ optimists. But these days Eve and Leah are largely accident free and the few messy mishaps always seem to occur on Mr Rush Hours watch, like the time he had to wash pooh from his and Eve’s fingers at the bus stop using apple juice, oh how I laughed about that, but so far so good for me.
Tonight’s commute home started promisingly enough, I managed to get away from work at five, they were delightful putting on their coats, holding my hands and talking to me about their day as they skipped to the bus stop. Then Eve announced that she’d forgotten to go to the toilet. “Well just hang on until we get home, it won’t be long “ I said in a cheery voice, “Mummy no”, adding firmly, “my pants are already a little bit wet”.
Nothing else for it then but to do the pants down, cradle hold over a nearby grid. I’ve seen Mr Rush Hour do this manoeuvre so many times and he always makes it look a cinch. I manage to pull her pants and trousers down and hold her, bum pointing in the direction of the grid, “Go on” I say encouragingly. Suddenly hot wee shoots up my jacket sleeve. And we have chosen a spot outside our student hall of residence and two very cool looking students are staring at me in horror. I stand up, pull up Eve’s pants and smile at them, wee dripping off my hand. With my other hand I search through my bag for some baby wipes, damn, they are in a different bag. I open the girls snack bag and rummage for the apple juice.