I thought I was doing well as a parent. Then we came to this milestone. And it’s a giant roadblock.
Every chance she gets, my mother reminds me that both my brother and I toilet trained ourselves at the remarkable age of 18 months. Excitedly hopeful that this display of prodigious poop-awareness might be genetic, I started getting the potty out for my son to become familiar with when he was the same age.
That was a year ago.
Since then we’ve tried, failed, given up and tried again. This process is arduous, drawn out, stinky and gross as droppings and dribbles have made appearances everywhere except in the toilet.
We’ve tried the three day toilet training technique, but all that resulted in was our wooden floors being stained in a shade of ‘acid-wash’ urine yellow. Hubby and I have attempted to foster a culture of co-peeing, we’ve used bribery and I pretty much have a Lloyd Webber show’s worth of catchy jingles that I have composed to encourage the correct ablutive behaviour.
My son mastered his balance bike in seconds. He says “please” and “thankyou” like a champion and he can even use the word “investigate” in the correct context. Overall he is doing well, but this endless routine of coaxing him to adapt to the discipline of dropping deuces is really wearing me down.
The thing that is really getting to me the most is that he does seem to have a grip on the concept itself. When offered treats at the right time, he’ll head to the bathroom and perform like an X-Factor contestant at the Grand Finale.