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.