Nothing and no-one can prepare you for potty training. It is an unspeakable thing. What, after all, is wrong with a highly absorbent nappy? And just going with the flow?
If you think about it, maybe all the fuss Freud made was right: delayed gratification can be confusing and stressful. Even second hand. Still we've been at it for a few of months now and, generally, it's going pretty well. We have graduated from the incessant questioning about 'wanting to go' and the relentless plonking on potty whether she wants to or not, to trusting S to tell us in good time. We have even stopped carrying a porta-potty around with us when we stray more than fifty metres from the nearest convenience.
But it can lull you into a false sense of security. Too much fun is always a dangerous distraction; parties are fatal.
"I want a wee wee, Daddy" says S breathlessly after running around for half an hour. Despite her declaration of a desire, there is an ominous dark patch on her skirt that suggests we're a trifle late.
We change her clothes and off she flies like a ball out of a cannon back into the mêlée.
Twenty minutes later and I am halloed from across the hall. S is standing in a puddle. Other children are gleefully jumping up and down in it. The other parents are frowning.
I change her into some jeans.
"You must tell Daddy when you want a wee wee." I implore her. "We don't have any more clothes to change you into. Do you understand?"
S nods solemnly.
She is a good girl. I know she'll come to me.
Ten minutes later, as I sit with a cup of tea, S comes over for a cuddle. As I sit her on my knee, she gently leans over and whispers 'I want a wee wee, Daddy.' Almost immediately I feel a familiar warmth spreading over my legs.
I stand up quickly, knocking my tea over and revealing to world a large damp patch on my jeans. I shout. Then pretend to be invisible. It doesn't seem to matter. I notice the other parents seem to be curiously absorbed with other things. Other things that all appear to be three or four metres away from me. And move when I do.
S has exhausted our spare clothing supply. But the party isn't over. She barrels away wearing what few dry garments we have left and looking more suited to the beach than the local church hall. Soon all the other children have followed her lead and are throwing their clothes away with gay abandon.
Parents seem to be leaving early.
I scratch my head. We don't have this problem at home. I look at S. She's happily slurping a beaker of squash. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. It is our fault. We are austere Victorian parents. She only has milk and water at home: not fancy cordials. I watch S hoover up the dregs of every half-empty beaker. In five minutes she must have drunk a litre of pop.
I think I see the problem.
