The Little Potty That Was Never Loved

Once again I've been absent from the blogosphere for a few weeks now.  Rest assured, Egg, Dumpie and myself are still alive and kicking - only wreaking havoc on the other side of the pond.

My father is still recovering from open heart surgery...slowly but surely.  The monsters are helping out by 'redecorating' his pristine, (formerly) off-white condo, into something with a more colourful (quite literally), bohemian palette. 

It is quite commonplace to walk by the creme fabric sofa in the morning and do a double-take whilst clocking the childlike graffiti swirled in oranges, purples and browns on the back.  It is also quite normal to be sitting and watching television, shift uncomfortably and reach down between the cushions to extract say a giant dried husk of a mango pit, or perhaps a stale and forgotten cheese twirl.

The bright red potty lugged 8 hours over the Atlantic (because it was Dumpie's 'favourite' - notice I say WAS) sits utterly abandoned in one of the toilets - as clean as the day we arrived.  I have now resigned myself to the fact that there is every probability that I shall be wiping my youngest son's bottom even as he sits his A-Levels.  

"Excuse me Sir may I please be excused to use the facilities?"

(A curt nod from the teacher as my large, lumbering son exits the classroom, speed dials me at home and issues his plaintive plea)

"Mum, sorry I've filled my pants again would you mind popping over for a sec and sorting me out?  It kind of stinks...."

"Sure son.  Do you need me to bring the wet wipes or are you cool doing that part yourself?"

"Come on Mum - I'm pretty stressed with exams - could you just do it?"

"Ok son be there in a jiffy!  Just try not to sit on it ok sweetheart?  See you in a minute"

"Hello Bumblebee..."

Dumpie is currently lying in the sun-drenched dining room floor beside me, carrying on an imaginary conversation with a bumblebee.  From what I can gather, they are discussing whether or not to get Mama to open the giant bag of 'Nannies' Grandma (aka 'Mum-Mum') got him yesterday.

"  'Ello Bumblebee...me have Nannies.  You like Nannies?  Me get Mama open Nannies?  You 'ungry?"  

(For some strange reason my son has gone all Cockney lately, much to the amusement of our relatives here in Canada...)

There is the now familiar scent of bodily waste drifting up from the nappie region and it is with much shame and despair that I must confess that 'Potty training' has gone the way of the Routemaster buses in London....it's bloody obsolete.

Yep.  You heard me correctly.  Whether due to the intense last few weeks with Grandpa in intensive care or the fact that Dumpie has clearly inherited his father and my ultra-hardcore-insanely-stubborn genes...it's hard to say.  Whatever the case, he appears to have such an aversion to the potty at present that you would think we were trying to lead him to the electric chair like a solemn Tom Hanks in "The Green Mile" - not a cheaply manufactured chunk of useless red plastic.  (sigh)

After several weeks of rain (ah, an 'English summer' in Toronto, how quaint) the weather now seems to be righting itself as evidenced this morning when I was awoken by (who else?) Dumpie right in my face demanding breakfast of his mother who was slowly being roasted alive by the intense sun pouring through the all-glass walls of the condo here high on the 36th floor. (If I had been wearing any sort of lotion I would have likely basted myself and started to smell quite fragrant I imagine.)

So here I sit, contemplating another day, missing my eldest who is in Mississauga (a suburb of Toronto) with his paternal grandparents, about to embark on a swimming lesson.  I'm sipping a disgusting, 'too milky' coffee (I'll have to make sure that my Will clearly outlines the necessity of being buried with my Italian stovetop espresso maker and sufficient 'Illy' to last me well into eternity...) and now have to play a game of hide-and-weep with Dumps...wherein I follow my nose to locate the source of the now putridly pungent diarrhoea-tinged air.  

To ensure I don't fail in my task, there is the faint chant of 'Diarrhoea...diarrhoea...diarrhoea' coming from the other side of the condo.  New favourite word methinks?  Oh great... 

Hospital Daze...

So for the past week or so I've been in the hospital all day everyday... 

My father is slowly recovering from open heart surgery and it's been a very stressful and tense time.  All the grandparents have been roped into 'doing time' with the monsters, but I have to confess that my mom really drew the short straw when landed with Dumps.

During just one phone call Dumpie had dropped a key down the heating grate, unraveled an entire packet of dental floss and fed it to Grandma's puppy (who licked the minty string clean), and was adamantly declaring that he was 'ablolupely NOT going to have a bath', despite being grubby enough to warrant an industrial strength hose down.

Meanwhile in Mississauga, little Egg was having swimming lessons, going for nightly bike rides with 'Granny-Gramps' and eating barbeque fish on a nightly basis.  Becoming increasingly concerned with the passing of time, I wasn't the least bit surprised to see the addition of a wristwatch on Eggie's wrist when he was returned to me.  It glows in the dark so now I can receive bi-minute updates on what time it is.  Hurrah.

Bedtimes appear to have gone out the window and now a nightly 'musical beds' takes place beginning around 8pm and lasting sometimes till long after midnight (sigh).  Last night the monsters outlasted all of us, still running around and giggling like spastic gremlins after we gave up the fight and finally crashed.

It was no surprise then to find myself eyeball to eyeball with Dumpie this morning in the early hours of pre-dawn.

"Wakey-wakey Mama!" he declared triumphantly as he planted a kiss on my lips.  

And so another day begins...