Bubble Guns

Oliver is now two, and is perfectly aged for potty training.

Or so we thought.

He’s had and understood the idea about weeing into a potty or toilet for a little while now, but we’ve been struggling to convince him about the poos.  He even ask for a nappy, such that he’d then toddle-off into a quiet corner somewhere to think. And to squeeze one out. And just for kicks at seeing his mum or dad having to clear it up, I’m sure the little monster squashes it in a little by sitting down a bit, such that’s stuck to his bum cheeks and smeared all over.

So, of course, we reverted to what any self-respecting parent would do.

Bribery.

Oh yes. And if you’re a parent that’s never bribed your child, then I call you liar.  Except, clever parents these days put a positive spin on it, and call it “positive reinforcement”, or something like that. Bribery, plain and simple, and it works.

Claire bought a (cheap) battery-powered, bubble-blowing gun from the supermarket. Quiet clever, that you screw a bottle of bubble mixture to the butt of the gun and theoretically, pull the trigger to find bubbles galore.

Well, as this was the bribery device, it sat on the high shelf in it’s packaging and out of reach, and when Oliver was sitting on the toilet, we’d tell him about this gun, teasing and taunting. Erm, I mean, positively reinforcing the notion of a child-friendly bubble-producing firearm.  And he’d respond, asking for it, because we’re grown ups and are really good at describing toys in a carrot/stick manner and he’d be convinced that he needed it, sometimes to the point of tears.

But there’d always be a little sadness when he wouldn’t ‘produce’, so to speak, and we’d end up with the phrase of ‘no poo, no gun’. Heck, I’d buy him five more if he’d have just poo’d a little chip out. But no. Stubborn-minded, just like… his mum. Or his Grandad Garry.

Each time, every 30 or so minutes we’d take him to the toilet and dangle him over it so that he wouldn’t fall in (again - ha ha haaaaa!), asking nicely and politely for a poo, but producing a wee, and so we’d keep up with the taunts. And reinforcements.  Or whatever.

But then when my mum was about to go, after having them whilst we were both at work, Oli came running into me, with the removable insert to the potty from the lounge (yes, lounge – they’re *everywhere*) saying “dad – look!”.

Obviously, seeing what you know to be an important piece from a potty-jigsaw being carried by a small child, you have to assume the worst and panic. Like, headless-chicken almost, thinking it’s brimming full of child-wee and probably already sloshed over the sofa and half of the dog. Panic.

I took this off like he had handed me an unexploded grenade or something, only to find its contents were not that liquid and runny, but full of what I can only describe as ‘curly man-poo’, and from that phrase alone, I’m sure you’ll already have a perfect picture sewn neatly into your brain as to what I’ll remember for years to come.

Yes. Indeed. The boy had poo’d and poo’d like a trooper.

And what did he say next?

“Bubble gun!”

I rest my case.