"My Wee (Wee) Problem"

Squit and I have a problem.  We have reached an impasse.  At 3 1/2 he is clever, funny, and easily possesses the best disposition of anyone in our entire family - extended or otherwise.  But he's still not potty trained.  Not even close.

In fact, if there was a neutral position on the subject, he would be to the far LEFT of that.  It's not even something he's willing to discuss anymore, and should I be foolhardy enough to drop it casually into conversation, he will stop what he's doing, fix me with a unwavering glare, cross him arms insolently and leave the room (usually with an entirely age-inappropriate expletive that would have Super Nanny huffing in horror).

A few weeks ago he had an induction afternoon at the nursery he starts part-time in September. There are strict guidelines regarding the soiling of oneself, and should I fail to deliver a wee-free toddler in  6 weeks, he shall not be going to nursery and I shall not be kiddie-free five mornings a week.  This cannot be allowed to happen.

One day a few months ago, whilst untangling the daily mountain of damp towels on the bathroom floor, I noticed that someone had placed the blue potty seat on top of the regular toilet.  Further inspection revealed a few tell-tale amber droplets left behind and a big sopping wet discarded nappy I had NOT had any dealings with, plopped triumphantly by the bidet.  Now curious and confused, additional sleuthing in his nursery revealed a turned over top dresser drawer, an empty plastic packet devoid of its new undies and an incredulous peek at Squits bottom downstairs revealed the tell-tale Gap band peeking above his little Levi's.

I was flummoxed.  I assumed it had been a brother job, but Egg and Dumps were as astounded as me. It suddenly dawned on all of us that incredulously, Squit had quietly taken matters into his own hands, potty trained himself, and had gotten on with it stealthily and without fanfare.  

At that moment, believing that I had given birth to an utter genius, excited calls to Aunties and Grandparents ensued, and an impromptu family celebration was declared for the evening: pizza, popcorn, chocolate, a movie, sleepover with his brothers, etc.  For the remainder of the day Squit was treated like a Saudi Prince - no request too big and no pleasure denied. The little man plopped himself into the best chair in the front room whilst we all scurried around doing his bidding, practically worshipping the chunky little deity for his ingenuity and potty pragmatism.  Shaking our heads in wonder and awe, laughing at the absurdity of it all, we couldn't believe that months of worry could be over just like that.

That night after bath time he insisted we cover his chubby white bottom in a nappy again.   Which he promptly then soiled. 

The new Gap superman undies were flung with derision across the room, landing unceremoniously askew on his little stuffed monkeys head. Squit stood with his arms crossed, stubbornly clutching his little elbows and refusing to budge.

So there you have it.  Impasse.  I need to be smarter.  I need to be brimming with cunning maternal genius and resolve.  I need to attack this situation with the military precision of a general.

Instead I'm sitting here defeated in my front room, in our home which will not sell, staring glumly out the window at the cold wet grey day that perfectly encapsulates the state of my aching head and spasming back. Our cleaner arrives in a few hours and two out of three of our bathrooms are currently not fit for human occupancy.  Squit is demanding his third breakfast of the morning and I am dimly aware that in a few days we shall potentially be heading to the Suffolk countryside for a weekend of likely WET family camping.

I am not feeling particularly powerful.  Nor optimistic.  Rather I have the sinking feeling that Squit is purposely holding out on the potty training for the sole purpose of putting off further education indefinitely and staying ensconced in the safe cozy realm of 'Mama-land' here at home.  And who can blame him?  A bit of wet discomfort in the nether regions in exchange for lie-ins, endless repeats of Mr. Tumble (fyi I swear I might top myself if I have to listen to even one more jovial exclamation from that televisual terror of an entertainer) and of course - three breakfasts daily.  

There's no competition.