This morning, after three phantom poos, I heard a fourth
“Muuuuuummm! I need a poo!” He must have sensed I was about to sit down on the
loo myself. Twenty minutes later, he was still sat there, insisting he hadn’t
quite finished whilst I danced around, my ‘post two kids’ bladder bulging.
“You sit right there on the potty, Mummy, like a good girl.
We don’t want an accident.”
“Funnily enough, I don’t think my size 16 arse will fit on a
potty designed for a two-year-old. I’d like to get in the shower soon as I need
to drive you to nursery and your father to bloody work, before attempting to
get myself and your disinterested brother breakfast. Just admit you’re
finished! FFS!” I didn’t actually say that. I couldn’t speak as I was
concentrating so hard on not wetting myself. Jesus, why didn’t I do my pelvic
floor exercises?!
Meanwhile, downstairs, I could hear the six-month-old with
separation anxiety, screaming, and the 35-year-old muttering something obscene, not
really under his breath, as he tried to get ready for work.
