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

We Wanna, We Wanna, We Wanna Wee

I had that dream again last night.

The one where no matter what you’re doing (and let’s face it, in our subconscious nocturnal wanderings we can be doing some pretty crazy stuff) your bladder butts in and you decide that you need to pee. So naturally, given the freedom of a human mind not tethered by the restraints of time and space, you simply conjure up a handy bathroom, search out a stall, and feel free to relieve yourself. If you’re lucky (or able to regain control of that wayward vision) you wake up before you actually follow through for real.

I hate that dream.

If you can believe “Zoo Weekly” magazine (and who wouldn’t seeing how it’s such a fine piece of journalistic veracity and integrity) 1% of adults wet their beds on a regular basis.

They probably had that dream.

According to much more reputable sources (scientific journals and parenting magazines- heck, even Wikipedia agrees and we all know how reliable that is!) if you’re a female of child-bearing age and you did that child bearing the way God intended, you’re twice as likely to suffer from pelvic floor muscle weakness and an occasionally leaky bladder. Especially if you laugh, cough, sneeze, exercise, are startled, or make any other sudden movement (gee you guys get it good sometimes). And it gets even worse with age (oh joy- something for us all to look forward to)!

It’s called Urinary Incontinence. What a delightful little term that is.

But it’s better than the other types of incontinence one can suffer from. And in the interests of good taste (also lest I somehow jinx myself) I am not going any further down that track in this little blog of mine (for those who really must know, read the opening par on that Wikipedia page, but don’t say I didn’t warn you).

And it’s a profitable business, this incontinence. Take a look at all the products offered in the Health & Beauty aisle at the supermarket next time, if you don’t believe me. Seriously, aside from all of us having that dream at one time or another over the course of our lives, what sort of person sits down and says “I’m going to get rich by selling diapers to grown-ups!”

It’s obvious that someone did. I mean, we all know that even Archimedes had to attend to health and hygiene, what with him having his ‘Eureka!’ moment in the bathtub and all; I just wonder what type of entrepreneur set out to make a fortune out of unfortunate bodily functions. (I'm also suspicious of the inspiration behind the Nintendo® Wii™, just quietly.)

The simple fact that I’m sitting here alone at my dining table typing a blog that may only ever amuse myself and my mother (my most loyal fan, thanks Ma!), in the vain hope that someone someday will stumble across my musings and decide I was the Next Big Thing of the literary world…shows that I have not had any such epiphany of the money-making kind. But, as usual, I digress.

It’s days like these- the morning after the night before, when one has had the misfortune to come this close to convincing their subconscious that they are appropriately placed for nocturnal encounters of the urinary kind- that I up the ante on the pelvic floor exercises, in the hope that even if the spirit is willing the flesh isn’t weak enough to follow through (or to put it terms the men in the audience might understand: the prostate doesn’t perform whilst prostrate).

And as I squeeze/hold/release, I also ponder the person who made the effort to elaborate on exercises purely designed to strengthen the muscles put into play when one pees. And consequently made their mark and their money out of it.

Some bloke by the name of Kegel, if I recall rightly.

I betcha he had that dream too.

Jx
©2010