Inspirational potty training from the Stowaway
So I’ve had an idea. It’s born partly of my bad parenting choices, and partly of greed.
The Stowaway starting potty training today. In the past, I’ve tried very hard to avoid just bribing her into submission, but this is different. This involves puddles, and, y’know. Shitty carpet. So, for Day One, we agreed she’d have a sticker and a ‘present’ every time she used the potty. The first five hours of the day were unsuccessful, and the rug started taking on a distinctly waterlogged feel. She whined and wailed for nappies. We got through ten pairs of big-girl* pants before lunch.
Then something changed. My darling daughter, born into the insolvent bosom of a family steeped in socialist ideals and little capital, is demonstrating what can only be described as an inspiring dedication to the acquisition of wealth.** The last three hours have gone in six minutes cycles of having a tiiiiiiiny slash so small you’d be hard pushed to drown a beetle in it, doing a celebratory dance, sprinting to the present box, unwrapping present, utilising present for no more than 90 seconds, then insisting she needs another wee.
And as such, my idea is thus. I will revert to a state of barely-managed continence. I will demand that the Deckhand buys a box full of trinkets, and then I will join the Stowaway in her cycle of urination and remuneration.
* Big girl pants being distinct from nappies. I don’t mean vast BHS knickers for the obese of bottom. Those belong to me, and would be inappropriate for a two-year-old.
** By ‘wealth’ I’m referring to juice boxes, plastic dinosaurs, hair clips and other disposable tat, mind. Doesn’t stop her pissing her little kidneys out for it.