The Twin Tornado are largely toilet trained. They only use nappies overnight. Mostly because Mummy here doesn't get up at night for anyone or anything short of George Clooney and/or the house burning down.
Until they regularly wake with clean, dry nappies, I will not be doing any of that waking them up to toilet train them during the night crap. My half-assed method worked with Miss6, and she even managed it well before she hit school age (which I wasn't entirely optimistic about, given that I was doing NOTHING to actually toilet train her at night time).
Not one single accident either. Ever. I take full credit for that, naturally.
I just know that the bed-wetting Gods will come down on me for the gloating. FFS.
The Twin Tornado have been ripping their nappies off first thing every morning, and shredding them. FFS.
They leave a path of yellowed, wee soaked nappy filling all the way down the stairs. FFS.
Guess who has to pick that
shit stuff up? FFS.
Do you have any idea how difficult it is to pick damp, spongy nappy filling off of carpet? FFS.
Carpeted stairs, no less - leaning over, balancing and trying not to fall all the way down. Extra FFS.
I tried making them pick it up themselves, but as soon as I saw Miss3's hand near her mouth - she who eats everything not nailed down, edible or otherwise - I had to take over. FFS.
|You're welcome for my opting to show you someone else's image of clean nappy/diaper filling and not one the Twin Tornado prepared earlier today....|
The down-side of successfully toilet training the Twin Tornado (say that 3 times after a few vodka's), is that I myself am forever waiting to use the toilet during the day, regularly putting my poorly pelvic floor to the test. FFS.
One, two or all three of the Feral Threesome occupy both of our toilets at any given time that I need to go. FFS.
Their bathroom cycles are clearly in-sync with my own, only theirs are slightly ahead so that I am always the one whining from the other side of the door to hurry upppppp. FFS.
And they take FOREVER in there. FFS.
They would quite happily sit on the toilet for an hour - no exaggeration - I have timed Mstr3 out of sheer curiosity and frustration. He merrily chats away to himself and whichever toy he's taken in to keep him company. FFS.
By the time I get to use the toilet, not only do I have an audience refusing to leave the confines of the lavatory, but I also usually have one single square of toilet paper at my disposal. FFS.
As much as I wish it was, my ass is not that small. One single square of cheap toilet paper won't cut it - or cover it, as it were. FFS.
Often, the little mini-bastards have thrown whole toilet rolls in the bowl for good measure. FFS.
I can't tell you how many coat / jacket / cardigan / sweater / shirt sleeves I've dipped in the toilet bowl while fishing out a bloated, full roll of toilet paper. FFS.
Plus accompanying plastic animal figurines. FFS.
I'm now so used to toilet bowl invasion that I hover over the seat, wondering if I have:
a) checked the contents of the bowl for over-flow inducing items
b) checked the toilet roll for adequate sheetage
c) checked the toilet seat for miss-fires and puddles
I actually have a mental pre-wee checklist, FFS.
Last night, while #1Hubby was snoring off his epic Man Flu (huge FFS right there), I was relishing the peaceful silence of solo toilet time - a luxury only afforded me at 11pm at night. FFS.
As I flushed, the water kept rising up the bowl.
I panicked, and looked around for what I could mop up the impending tidal wave with. #1Hubby's towel was closest.
I swear. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Luckily for me (and #1Hubby's towel), the water bubbled twice and receded just in time - in a very stop-start manner that can only be the result of a Lego man hunkering down somewhere in the S-bend. FFS.
It is only a matter of time before that shit backs up. Literally. FFS.
Please, please, please. Let it be on a Saturday while I'm at work and #1Hubby has to deal with it.