Potty Time

There’s a lot of things I love about being a parent.

There are also things I’m liking not so much.

Without a doubt, the thing I would gladly never go through again: is toilet training.

I now know why some call it potty time. Because it certainly gave me a case of potty mouth a time or two (under my breath, mind you, I’m not that bad a parent).

And it’s true what they say that boys can be trickier than girls. While it took my son a good few months to get the hang of it (and let’s face it, any female who cohabits with a male of any age knows that some never really do), my daughter decided that nappies were sooooo last season, at roughly the same time as that. Two for the price of one. Bargain.

But the departure from diapers only brought about a whole new chapter- the fascination with public toilets. What is up with that?

I swear, even if the kids have gone before we left, we can never go anywhere without at least one of them desperately desiring a dunny. More often than not it’s both, oh and not necessarily at the same time either.

Normally it doesn’t worry me (I just have to get my gag reflex in check before entering the public domain): I’ve got the anti-bacterial spray for the seat, a tissue or two in hand if there’s not enough loo paper, and enough energy to assist the littlies as they go about their ablutions.

Yes every time we have to use a loo or two on our travels I am reminded yet again of my enduring preference for the bathrooms at home. Bit difficult when you’re off attending a medical conference about your child’s condition, held in Hershey Pennsylvania.

I call it The Great Toilet Tour of 2007. With good reason.

On a 15½ hour flight, my son and I managed to squeeze into the aircraft toilet no less than 14 times. And he was asleep for about 7 hours! I have never been on an international holiday before, and had no idea about what joys awaited me in that cramped and stinky little room. Nor just how cramped and just how stinky that little room would feel about 10 hours in.

*shudders*

Things didn’t get any less claustrophobic once we touched down in the US of A either. Oh no, not when there were soooo many new and exciting things about North American amenities, we just had to try them all. Automatic opening doors, interchangeable seats, infrared flush, remote action soap, water and hand dryers are just too awesome for a 5 year old. A little less awesome but equally as, shall we say interesting for mothers of same, I can assure you.

Yes we hadn’t even been Stateside for 3 hours before we were calling for maintenance of the Holiday Inn nearby LAX. Aside from that old anomaly of the water going down a different direction (it really does seem to, you know), my son was transfixed, and just a little concerned that the water level is quite a lot higher before you even begin to contribute. I have to admit to being a tad wary myself, lest I inadvertently get the bidet effect whilst parked on the potty. What isn’t supposed to happen, apparently, is for that water level to get higher still, until the bathroom floor gets an impromptu wash. A performance that was to be repeated again at a brand spanking new Church just outside Atlanta Georgia, when my son with due diligence ensuring his hiney was shiny accidentally overloaded the porcelain with paper.

Yes there I was, on my knees in the lavatories, muttering holy hell about having to clean up the mess, lest the preacher think any less of his Aussie guests.

But the best was yet to come.

The CNN Center is equipped with some of the most breathtakingly brilliant technology in the modern world. And it most certainly took my breath away. Especially when my son decided to disengage the doorlock while I was still posed kangaroo-style over the toilet bowl, moreso when amidst my shrieks for him to “Close the door!” I moved slightly out of the line of sight of the automatic flush infrared beam, and got to experience what a bidet would feel like after all. Our local tour guides said in spite of the noise levels inside the centre, they distinctly heard my squeal from where they waited outside. (I’m surprised they didn’t hear it back home in Australia, just quietly.)

So whilever I’m waiting for one or the other or both of my offspring to offload at a bathroom stall somewhere, I try to remind myself that they’ve reached a very valuable milestone by being able to do by themselves (and with the door properly locked too, I might add).

Now I get to be one of the mums nodding in sympathy whenever I witness those still in toilet-training mode.

Been there, done that, not going back.

Jx
©2010