I had an epiphany the other day. While the family was out shopping, number two put in a request for a number two. This request used to make me groan, sweat and swear, because the time required for said number two to do a number two was extensive, and when in a sweaty, tropical toilet, it is really, really shithouse!
Throughout all such public toilet adventures with both of my lads, we’ve always had lots of conversations. The main focus of the conversation always went along the lines of this: “Mum are you doing a wee or a poo?”
Obviously I was ALWAYS doing a wee.
I must be honest and admit I secretly did enjoy our chats, because their freedom to express our shared experiences, while having no appreciation of its inappropriate nature, was lovely, sweet and completely harmless. One day, these conversations will stop too, but not yet, not yet.
They’re just not with me anymore. They are big boys now, and as such, they go to the big boy’s toilet. When Steve’s around, he obviously has to endure it, but otherwise it’s between them and any male strangers in the toilet. My job today is to stand outside and wait, hoping the toilet is clean, and that no guest makes the mistake of dropping a massive guff.
This happened recently. Thankfully Steve was there. While having the “conversation,” another chap was obviously experiencing some rather intense stomach difficulties.
“Dad did you hear that pop-off? It was so loud. Dad there he goes again. He did a BIG fart Dad.”
(Yes we are moving beyond pop-off to fart. That had to happen too.)
Steve was obviously suppressing his giggles, while trying not to encourage the conversation, but there is nothing that can be done. My boys are at the age when they think bodily functions are the funniest thing on the planet, and all we can hope for is that day to come to an end too. And soon. I just felt sorry for the guy on the other bog. A peaceful bog he did not have.
But part of my epiphany was linked back to an earlier blog I wrote – Motherhood a Series of No Mores. In this I talked about all of the things I decided to stop doing for the boys. I was just done. I’d had enough. It included wiping their arses after they were out of nappies – check. Amazing how quickly they sort themselves out there. Opening Chuppa Chups – check! There is always, ALWAYS a will to open a Chuppa Chup and will is all that’s required to get a result.
But of course, now they’re at the series of no mores with me. I obviously can’t take them to the toilet anymore. There are certain conversations they’ll only have with their dad now. When trying clothes on in shops, I can no longer drop their dacks in public and do it quickly. We need the privacy of a dressing room and no mum, you can’t come in.
The journey of the parent is fascinating. Our boys are bloody hilarious, and every day I see how the world is starting to shape their thinking and influence their ideas. But they are still connected to the core of who they are, even if it gets chipped away at every day.
We’re such complex creatures us humans, so trying to help my boys stay connected to their core is my job now, but it’s completely out of my control. I can’t be there every minute of the day. I can’t shield their hearts from hurt. I have to let them find their way, and with the no mores building up for this mumma, it creates distance too. This is a good thing and a sad thing. I always knew I had to let them go, but it hurts a little bit every time they pull away just that little bit more. Sigh…
Bloody kids. I love ‘em to bits, but crikey, what a ride!
Anyone want to share a favorite ‘no more’ memory – whether it’s one of yours or one of theirs?
Yours, without the bollocks