I never knew too much about it myself to begin with as I didn’t have a brother growing up so I wasn’t even aware. Later when I heard snippets of various mother’s conversations about the topic I never thought it could be that bad. They must be over dramatising it. Surely. Turns out those mothers were wrong: it was much, much worse than I could have ever have imagined.
Toilet training boys…Number ones. Wee. Wizz.
Teaching the precision art of aim; without having the actual equipment yourself.
Something that I wish I wasn’t so clued up on but unfortunately I am. With my previous career experience and now with a son of my own I am all too familiar with the epic fails that can happen in the toilet training business. And beyond. One of my first days as a wide eyed young child care trainee I was horrified to find a toy car sitting at the bottom of the children’s (clean) toilet. ‘EWWW, I am not getting that out of there‘ I thought to myself. That was early days. Very early days. From that moment on my visual tolerance level for anything disgusting, stinky and vile that a child can do has drastically risen. Because once you have seen someone else’s little darling vomit up fritz and sauce sandwiches, and then had to clean it up, that shit gives you iron guts. Or you can never ever eat fritz again. Or maybe a bit of both.
I think nappies are a genius invention: they take care of all the mess I don’t want to and all I have to do is take it off and swap it for a new one. Brilliant! Then after a few years the independent toilet trainer waltzes in and soon you’re really forced to deal with that crap head on. Brace yourself, it’s going to get messy.
I have the same level of love for my children’s toilet as I do for pub toilets. None. It stinks like nothing else and you never want to sit down. Avoid it at all costs and if you desperately have to enter then take a big breath and hover hover hover.
Enter the Fournado. My first born. The son I adore, the little boy I love the most. Also the very same boy I least want to share a bathroom with in our house. The same boy with so much energy and zest for life, with his busy mind racing and lack of care for simple details like aim and finish, who forgets he needs to leave extra time just to make it to the toilet in the first place. For him there is simply no time to waste on these trivial things so at the very last second it’s a damn stampede.
Judging by the arc shape display on the floor and wall he must turn around mid stream because I can see mess all up my newly painted glossy white wall. Cringe. At first I thought it was a mistake. “What is this stuff on the wall?” Then more and more I kept seeing little yellow spots decorating the wall and then I noticed, The Smell. “EEK that stinks! It has to be testosterone because that shit is nasty!”
I feel like it’s definitely a boy thing, and it’s definitely not just my (perfect) boy. Im sure it’s a feature they all have, regardless of age. Apparently the male penis doesn’t even quite know when it’s finished using the toilet so then there is always those last few surprise sprinkles that spritz on out like the grand finale fireworks on New Year’s Eve. In Dubai. Always one more. Ending up on my bathroom floor and etched into the nasal cavity of family members everywhere.
I thought it was just us. That smell and the lack of aim. There is no finesse, there is no care, the evidence is written all around (and on) the toilet (seat) and it is a constant battle to keep it clean. Recently I spoke with another mother about this, wondering out loud if I could be alone in my toilet trauma but she assured me as a mother of much older boys that what I was experiencing was quite normal…and that it won’t be fixed anytime soon; Yellow walls are a common theme, aim is nonexistent and you need to invest in a lovely citrus toilet spray. Ugh!
Males must think that the whole toilet unit is the target, not just the little bowl of water inside it at the at the bottom. (How easy would that be) Therefore if you can just make contact with it somewhere at least once your on a win. It is now that I understand the concept behind the urinal. A whole great wall dedicated to it, no need for aim. Genius. At home it’s not that simple. With a stand up shooter it’s like freaking Hansel and Gretel with a trail of breadcrumbs left behind except there is no bird to come and pick it up afterwards. That bird is me. Gloved up with my colour coded floor cloth, disinfectant spray and the mop, still damp from yesterday.