My Toilet Training Horror Story
One thing that I find quite amusing as a parent, is the amount of time allocated to poo-related conversations.
Whether you’re a new parent confused over the green and brown colours of your newborn’s poo-chart, or simply reliving the first terrifying time you encountered the dreaded ‘number three’, there sometimes seems no end to the constant doodoo based discussion.
My fiancé and I are currently living in a nappy-free house; Master 4 and Miss 3 both completely toilet trained, and I am enjoying this time while I can. Since I’m due to pop out another bundle of love in December, I am treasuring every moment where my hands are not attempting to de-poo a little bum, or take the 100th trip to the toilet to ‘help’ a little one de-poo themselves. Once bub arrives, I am fully aware that at least 70% of my time will be dedicated entirely to bottom duty.
When I talk to other parents about the joys of nappies and toilet training, I find that everyone has at least one or two tales to recount. We can all visualise the new dad at a dinner party, happily draining the dregs from his bottle of wine, loudly describing the state of his baby after a run-in with a number three. Or perhaps the exhausted mum we run into at the shops, who is buying yet another box of washing powder, after her little darlings wet the bed – again.
We all have a story, and this is mine. About a year ago I still had one of my children using nappies.
My son was toilet trained, but my daughter was not.
It was a sweltering Summer day, and perfect swimming weather. Seeing as I have a fair complexion (open the fridge – burn!), I opted for our local indoor pool.
Currently not owning a car, the children and I made the 20-minute journey by bus, and once arriving, when straight to the changing rooms.
Upon arriving, I discover my daughter had done yet another giant poop. With no exaggeration (I had counted), I can tell you it was #6 for the day. I can also tell you that I had just changed her before we left for the bus, and #5 hadn’t been a small movement either. However, once I had cleaned her up, I realized that I had left all the swimmer nappies at home. So I made a choice – I would just slip her into her bather bottoms and not worry about it. I mean, she was only little, she couldn’t possibly have any room left in that tiny toddler gut, could she?
Guessed where this story is heading yet?
For the first 20 minutes the day went, excuse the pun, swimmingly. As my children were by far the youngest (seemingly the only ones under 10), we had the toddler pool to ourselves. It was wonderful.
I watched my son practice kicking his legs, watched my daughter learn to hold her breath and giggle when she came up out of the water, watched the sneaky poo float pass my elbow, wait…
Oh God, a rogue poop. I took a deep breath, and went into damage control. I thought the best course of action would be to rush my kids into the change rooms, clean everything up, then get into one of the bigger pools, and pretend like nothing happened.
Not my proudest, or most mature moment, but I didn’t think I could bear to be associated with the bobbing brown canoe.
I hurried the kids into the changing rooms, and turned into the first shower cubical. I figured it would be easier to wash off DD’s bathers and bottom in there, rather then struggle with wet, ripping toilet paper.
With the shower on, I removed the bather bottoms and, hand to heart, was faced with a bowel movement the size of a Chihuahua.
I swiftly emptied it into the drain, and went about washing her bathers. While I focussed on cleaning up DD’s backside, I was suddenly met with a terrified scream from my son, “Mummy! The poo! The poo, Mummy!”
Oh. Good. God. It was like a scene from a horror movie. When I replay it in my head, I can actually hear staccato violins, as my vision zooms in on a fountain of turd, bubbling up from the now-clearly-blocked drain. I watched in open mouthed horror as the brown river wound its way under the cubical wall, and down the slightly sloped floor of the line of showers, trailing it’s slop through every single one. Every. Single. One. One by one, I could hear other revolted shrieks, joining the hysterical wailing from my son, “So yuck Mummy! So much yuck! Help Mummy, too much poo! TOO MUCH POO!”
All the while my daughter wore a massive grin – clearly impressed with the circus of screams she had caused.
If only the ground could’ve opened up and swallowed me whole. I wanted to die.
Kind readers, I would love to tell you that I handled the situation like a responsible, poised adult. I would love to tell you that I immediately alerted the staff so a cleaner (or, more likely a heavy duty plumber) could be contacted, and that I profusely apologized to both staff and patrons alike.
I would love to tell you that I did these things, but I did not.
What I did instead, was sweep a child under each arm, awkwardly snatch up our belongings, and run like a mad woman straight out the door, followed most of the way by the terrified screams of the poop victims.
Once outside the large glass windows of the leisure centre, I searched frantically for my bus pass. It was nowhere to be found, evidently lost in the hurry to escape my embarrassment.
I began to freak out. The angry faces now leering at me through the front windows only magnified this mild hysteria. Oh God. They knew.
It had taken very little time to link together the frantic exit of mother and two young children to the war zone left behind in the showers. Staff and clued-in patrons greased me through the glass, as I made a hasty phone call to a friend, who, in between snorts of laughter, promised to be there ASAP. A weary eyed cleaner armed with an old mop and bucket shot me such a nasty look, I almost broke down then and there.
But, continuing with my incredibly mature handling of the situation, I pretended not to see any of these looks. I pretended I was a potato; I only broke out of my spud-disguise to threaten my daughter, when she would announce proudly to any and all passers by that she “Did a big poo in the pool! Pooed everywhere!”.
I would put on a toothy grin and whisper threats of what would happen if she didn’t shut up, whilst giving my best, ‘Oh, the thing kids say!’ kind of smile. I tried to present myself as a relaxed happy mother.
I looked like a strung out bag lady that had arguments with parking meters.
My mate arrived after half an hour and loaded the kids, and my borderline hyperventilating self into the car, taking us home.
Once the kids were in bed (5.30pm bedtime is clearly appropriate when faced with such a catastrophe), I promptly began weeping, and inhaling half a cask of wine.
A few drunken hours later however, I was laughing. This was kind of funny. I mean if I’d seen this is a movie I would have lost my mind giggling.
And so, I decided to share my Tale of Turds.
All Mummies’ need a break and a chuckle, and I hope I’ve delivered such a story. So share the bowels and barf stories of your children, and give the gift of a giggle.
Us Mummies’ need a laugh, and need to know we are not the only ones who have encountered an ‘interesting’ experience thanks to the bodily functions of our children.
Do you have any hilarious or embarrassing toilet training horror story to share?
Written for Mum’s Lounge by Tara Lee Mum of – Master 4, Miss 3, and expecting Little Master in December. Author @ – www.mamaslittlemadhouse.blogspot.com.au