1. New Floor - Part I:
My floors have been sanded so the downstairs of my house now actual resembles a house and not a cowshed.
The process left me marooned upstairs, waiting for the floor-oil to dry but the phone downstairs rang and, fearing an emergency, I answered it. This caused me to stay still for too long on the newly oiled floor and the soles of my feet became somewhat adhered but, a deep breath and a painful ripping sensation later, I was free (if somewhat lame).
Although I can't deny that being glued to my own floor would have been mighty good blog-fodder I am somewhat relieved I didn't have to call 999 and inform the emergency services that I was being held by invisible forces to my hallway floor, my kids were upstairs but I was otherwise alone and, no, I couldn't open the door for the paramedics/fire brigade, they'd have to break in but, whilst doing so could they take their boots off and try to keep footfall to the minimum? I've waited a long to time to have a normal floor and I won't give it up without a fight.
2. NEW FLOOR - PART II
On the floor front I also have a new carpet in my front room. Gone is the battered pink shagpile (yum yum!) encrusted with peanut butter (and let's face it, things that would make 6 month old peanut butter actually look appetising) and in its place is something neutral, non-shaggy and peanut-butter free. And it's my ambition that it shall remain as such.
My eldest son is less convinced:
Son 1: Mummy?
Son 1: How long do we have to be nice to the new carpet for?
Me: Be nice? What you mean not cover it in foul matter and dig holes in it with those long bits of Lego?
Son 1: Yes.
Me: Oh a very long time.
Son 1: What? Like as long as the big holiday all summer! (Said in aghast horror).
Me: No (pause for effect) - FOREVER.
Son 1: WHAT!? WHAT!? Forever!?
Me: Yes. Forever.
Son 1: What until we DIE?
Me: (slightly shocked) Errr yeah - that long.
Son 1 firmly addresses his younger brother: Did you hear that toddler? We have to keep the carpet clean UNTIL WE DIE and have to go and live with Jesus (at the word Jesus he collapses into a state of 5 year old boy hilarity which is normally reserved for phrases involving poo and/or boobies).
The Todder: I. AM. NOT. A. TODDLER!
Me: That changes nothing - respect the carpet or you shall feel my wrath.
Son 1: Mummy what is your wrath?
Me: I'll show you later......
3. BYE BYE NAPPIES
The toddler (who is not a toddler) has decided to totally toilet train himself with no guidance or assistance from me whatsoever. This could possibly sound smug if it wasn't for the fact that his 5 year old brother is still a 'work in progress' when it comes to these matters and I've had 3 angst filled years which have involved everything from laxatives to Jaffa Cakes to beating him with a small stick (only joking - but there have been times when I have had small fantasies on this theme - don't judge me until you've spent many many years cleaning up poo in public places. People keep asking me if I'm going to get a dog. What? WHAT!? Just so I can pick up poo and carry it round in a small plastic bag FOREVER!? No. Thank you for thinking of me but NO).
However I think the root of the toddler's willingness is less 'desire to please' as 'desire to feel hugely powerful and shoot stuff out of my body at will - my wee is my weapon and I feel it makes me hugely powerful'.
When he wees on the toilet he wees so powerfully that is usually shoots straight over the top and hits an adjoining wall. I can cope with this but it's more awkward at other people's houses......
Then there's the outdoor weeing. He's good at keeping cats off my patio but the downside is it's less 'rose scented waft of summer', more 'men's public urinals after a good Saturday night'. I keep glancing out my window to see him jetting piss onto foxgloves/fences/my rhubarb. Every time I turn my back, down come his shorts and off he goes - giving everything a good hosing.
This has reached the point where my OH has renamed him 'The Mannequin Pis':
That is actally a scarily accurate representation of him - only he's of a lighter skin tone, sports less of a six-pack and tends to have his feet planted in a pair of Iggle Piggle socks.
Until Friday I was taking the view that 'at the end of the day he's listening to his body and not weeing in his pants - where is the problem with his outdoor weeing?'.
Then it was Friday morning and we were in the school playground.
The toddler had run off in hot pursuit of his brother and all the other children who like to pretend he's a monster and run away from him screaming (it's tough being the youngest isn't it?) when suddenly all the other children came running back with a look of sheer joy/shock/horror/amazement on their faces.
A little girl ran up to me and said 'oh my word, you little boy has just pulled down his pants and weed on the Headmaster's door!'.
And he had.
The playground emptied as children flocked to gaze upon the scene of the crime. Small boys tried to push each other into the lake of wee. Small girls shrieked and giggled. The Headmaster's door swung open. I hoiked up the toddler's pants, flashed his my best smile and quickly retreated. The toddler chuckled. He never was one for authority.
Looking on the bright side - at least it wasn't my new carpet......