Friday, 11 May 2007

"Poo Pee Who Wants Tea!"

Sorry I haven't written this past week. Auntie Ba has been ill with the flu and i've been left on my own and I'm rather afraid I've not been adjusting too well. All manner of developments have occurred in terms of how monstrously destructive Egg has become to all of our possessions - and indeed the foundation of our poor, Grade II Listed building. As for darling Ollie - even he has proven a handful given his newly-acquired skill of jumping out of his chair and landing with a soft plump face down on the kitchen floor.

Yesterday Egg came up with his first rhyme (or rap, depending on how you look at it. He was after all gesticulating and shaking and yelling it out in a hip-hop fashion) which I have used as the title for this latest blog. I'm sure it would be funnier if he weren't so obsessed with bodily functions and fluids right now and I didn't have to spend my days chasing his naked form around while he threatens to 'pee' or 'poo' on assorted items (yesterday it was the bedroom carpet, poor Ollie Dumpie, and Jay's prized bongo drum).

As you may have guessed, the potty training ain't going so well. Egg is exceptionally clever and is adept at explaining at great length the benefits which will occur once he has (finally) made a poo poo in the toilet ("ice-cream, visit Grandpa in Florida, cookies, candies, new underpants, nursery school", etc.) However he resolutely refuses to even try, and will run screaming if we even suggest it. His preferred way to relieve himself is to take cover behind the wooden highchair in our kitchen for a few minutes, then pop his head out and announce 'I do poo poo'. It really is wearing. And disgusting. Especially as he hates having his bottom wiped afterwards and is affronted by the lack of dignity this practice allows. He lies precariously on the change table upstairs - most of his body too big to fit on it - and I try and pry his legs open to clean him all the while he's giggling or grabbing bits of me and requesting that I show him his handiwork ("Please Mama. Let me see!" is his plaintive wail. If i ignore him it's, "Excuse Me! Please Mama I have a look?") It seems unreasonable not to give into such a heartfelt and polite request, so I end up showing him as he lies there on his back, and we study it together - as if to find some rhyme or reason in the shapeless form.

I have quickly succombed to my morning ritual which is to roll out of bed, dress and change the boys, then lurch downstairs and make an Italian espresso as quickly and as well as is humanly possible. I use the ancient silver stove top Italian maker, pour two (very) generous scoops inside and froth my milk. Minutes later I have a lovely cappucino and slowly as I sip I become slightly more human...followed twenty minutes later by severe agitation as I embark on a giant caffeine high and get all antsy and unable to concentrate. Lovely.

Yesterday as I put Egg on the stairs for his fifth "time-out" of the day (and it was only noon), I dejectedly started cleaning up the assortment of letters and numbers which Egg had earlier relieved from our extra laptop keyboard. I remembered the wise words of our lovely young postman (who is I think secretly amused by the various states and incarnations he is likely to meet upon my opening the door - harried housewife, glamourous bejewelled babe, vomit-ridden toddler carrier, crazed cookie baker.....etc.) He always shakes his head and says, 'Don't worry my dear it won't last forever!'.

Of course, he IS right. It WON'T last forever. One day the house will be quiet again and I just might miss the wailing, incessant questions, constant spills and mess, and loud wailing as Egg has once again cut off Ollie's breathing by lying on top of him and smothering him in kisses. One day I might with desperately that i had enjoyed these days instead of just tried to get through them.

But then again, one day I might sip my cappucino, tap away on my laptop while classical music plays seductively in the background, and plan a quiet, leisurely day in which I will not be required to excavate bits of feces from dirty bottoms. A girl can dream....

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