Sam just did a poo in his potty. Not just any poo in his potty, I might add, but his FIRST poo in his potty. And it was rank, smelly and a completely disgusting experience which I’d really rather not repeat.
But of course I am going to have to repeat it. Many, many times. Now, I know I’ll get used to it, eventually, and in time, just like nappies, it shall cease to bother me, but, right now, right this second, bother me it does. Yes, right now I’m, more than, slightly haunted by the stench and then how my hand, wrapped in tissue, had to delve in, pick it out and dispose of it politely.
I’d wanted Sam for so so long that I genuinely thought I knew what this motherhood malarkey was all about, that I wouldn’t be phased by it at all and I wouldn’t be disgusted; I’d waited years to be able to deal with baby poo and therefore it was going to be my very pleasure, a blessing even.
Like with so many other things, that’s completely not the case, and I found myself heaving in horror and texting mum friends to share in this traumatic experience with me. And, just like with so many other things, I’ve realised that until each stage actually happens, no matter how well prepared you think you are, nothing can actually really set you up for the stark reality of each situation.
Take terrible twos and tantrums, for instance, I’d read a few books, I was expecting them, I completely thought I’d nail it. Right? Wrong! There are some days when all the reading of all the books, in all of the world, can’t compare to what is simply known as survival; putting your toddler to bed early and consuming a whole parental vat of wine whilst hoping that tomorrow will be different.
And eating out… Oh yes, you know what’s coming! I really was that naïve! That first time mother who decided her child was most definitely not going to be on the iPad in cafes and restaurants. Oh how I laugh at my former self. I wish I could go back in time, in the style of the Christmas Carol, as the ghost of eating out of the future, and mock her. The last time we had dinner out, we got to finish a meal, we conversed with friends and actually enjoyed a glass of wine too, all courtesy of a random YouTube clip featuring model Thomas the Tank Engine crashes, or kisses, as Sam liked to tell us they were. Do you know what? A good time was had by all and, as an added bonus, we aren’t ashamed to show our faces in our local pub again! Hurrah! God bless you Thomas, you Really Useful Engine, you.
After tonight’s incident I’m betting that the potty won’t be the last parenting ideal of mine that (oh I’m so going to do it!) gets flushed down the drain. (Sorry, I really couldn’t resist!) I’m learning that, whilst the preconceived, romantic imaginings I had, of parenthood, may be completely wrong, it’s actually okay to not live up to them, they’re probably pretty much unattainable anyway. I’ve also discovered that it’s absolutely fine to heave at your miracle child’s poo.
I have, however, decided that I might use Iggy Pop’s sound advice when it comes to toilet training though, but, apply it to all “functions”:
“Well, I don’t use the toilet much to pee in. I almost always pee in the yard, or the garden, because I like to pee on my estate.”
It certainly beats the potty!