Potty Training A Nineteen Month Old. Am I Mad?

So I know Willow is probably still too young to get the whole peeing on a potty thing, but we are going to introduce one none the less. 

Why? Well, every night before her bath I get Willow undressed and she sits on a small, children's wicker chair in the corner of the bathroom. A few weeks ago, she decided that the chair was for weeing on. The first time, it happened by accident. The second time I was testing to see if she'd do it again and then every time after that, I just say "Are you going to have a wee?" and she does. Sounds a little gross, but the chair is wicker, and the wee goes straight through.

When I told Dan, that this was happening, he suggested we should get a potty, just to see if she used it in the same way. So that's what we are going to do. We're approaching this with absolutely no pressure what so ever. We are just going to keep the potty in the bathroom and let her have a wee on it, if she wants too.

This is as far as the 'potty traing' will go for now, unless she actually starts requesting to use the potty. This is doubtful, but a good start for when we do want to start the whole 'weeing like a big girl' shebang. 

No reward charts, no bribes or big girl pants. Just a potty in the corner of the bathroom and we'll see how it goes.

**The photo at the top has absolutely no relevance to this post, just felt weird not having a photo. It's my daughter looking a bit mental.

Sisterhood.

Since becoming a mother, one aspect that I am particularly thankful for is how close it has made my family. My mum and my dad, but most of all my sister and I. When Willow arrived, my sister revelled in her role as aunty and supported me through the tough bits. When my nephew was born in February this year, we became even closer. 

Growing up my sister and I were close. We were good sisters, giving our parents whole weekends off by hiding up in our bedroom putting on fashion shows to imaginary audiences and creating whole towns of Sylvanian Families. In our teens, our relationship wasn't quite so amicable. I just wanted to be around her and she wanted to get as far away from me as humanly possible. We fought over clothes and make up. She once threw a cup of (cool) tea at me for going in her room and one time, I tried to pull her down the stairs by her leg, after she borrowed my boots without asking.

By the time we had gotten over our teen spats, we were both off to college and University with hundreds of miles between us. In our early twenties we didn't talk much, only at family get togethers and such like. We weren't the kind of sisters that rang each other twice a week for long chats. We both just got on with our lives. 

It really wasn't until I fell pregnant that we stated to have more contact. It became more natural to be around each other and I valued my sisters support and understanding. From here our sisterhood began to flourish and by the time my sister gave birth to her little boy, I was ready with all my 'expert parenting knowledge' and packets of breast pads. 

I now cherish the closeness we share. In the past, I often felt like I was missing out and was jealous of friends who had a close sibling bond. I suppose for my sister and I, it was a matter of timing. We both needed to grow up enough to recognise the importance of family. One thing we are both looking forward to, is raising our children together. With only ten months between Willow and my nephew, they will experience something that my sister and I didn't - a close extended family. This excites me a lot. 

“You can choose your friends but you sho' can't choose your family, an' they're still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge 'em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don't.”

― Harper Lee, To Kill A Mocking Bird.

Quite.

Me And My Shadow.

Believe me when I say, the thought of a day free from childcare and general 'mummy duties' is something I have dreamed about for a while. A whole day to myself? Not a dirty nappy or cheese encrusted highchair in sight. Bliss.

Or so I thought.

Monday marked the end of the recent campaign I have been working on and I packed Willow off to nursery as normal. I was so excited at the prospect of a free house. I couldn't wait to relax and do nothing for a whole seven hours. I was giddy at the prospect.

On arriving home I assumed the position on the sofa, flicked on the telly and opened the laptop. What shall I do? What shall I watch? What shall I read? The possibilities were endless. To venture out of the house would, in my eyes, been a waste. I didn't want to run errands, I didn't want to get on top of the house work. I wanted to just be. Free of responsibility and grown up stuff.

Only, as the morning dwindled away in a social networking haze, I started to feel a little low. More than that actually. I felt lonely. I was bored. 

What? WHAT?

How could I not be enjoying this? Time to myself I something I've craved since dear Willow was born. Why couldn't I relax? I used to be so good at vegging out. Professional, some might say. "Right", I thought, "Who are you and what have you done with Alice?"

I felt incredibly guilty for not using the time productively. I had thousand things running around my brain. Things I should be doing. Not only that, but the house felt empty. Vacuous. Devoid of noise. I didn't like it. Feel free to vom, when I tell you the next bit, but I actually missed Willow. I felt lost without her.

Though I resisted the relationship in the early weeks of Willow's life, she is now so much a part of me. Like a limb. A really hilarious, amazing limb. I just don't feel the same without her around. I dont know what I am supposed to do if I'm not looking after her. She is my companion, my sidekick. 

I tell you, it's news to me. I have spent most of my time as a mother, attempting to claw back peices of me that exsisted before child. Getting back to the 'old me' was the main goal, but that person doesn't exsist anymore. I am Willow's mum and I am happiest when I am with her. We are both at our best when we are together.

I know how it sounds. Most of you will now be thinking that I need to get a life, but it just goes to show how much parenthood can change a person. I'm more surprised than anybody.

Fwends.

Damn it. How did this happen? I seem to have got myself into the bind of providing Willow with a favorite toy. A toy that she now needs to take everywhere for comfort and play. Crap. I never had a toy like this when I was little and so I just did not see this coming.

Willow and Pig are now an extention of one another. It all stared when we moved Willow into her own room. I tucked Pig in with her for comfort. Pig would stay in the cot and was always only a sleep comfort. No harm there, I thought. Then recently, when Willow started nursery, I packed Pig into her bag and told the nursery nurses that he might help if she was upset. 

And there it is. Pig has now become Willow's most favourite companion. Surely this can only end badly. What happens when she drops Pig from the buggy and I don't see to pick him up? What happens when we leave him on the bus? What happens when I try to wash him and the machine chews him up? There will be tears and it will be my own making. 

How could I be so naive? 

It's well cute though.

*** I wrote this post on Saturday morning. On Saturday afternoon I took Willow out to the shops - she took Pig, naturally. On the way back I glanced down at her in the buggy and realised that Pig was not there. Talk about tempting fate. I had a frantic power walk back to the shops, looking under parked cars, checking every door step. THANKFULLY, Willow had dropped Pig in the last shop we had been in and the shop keeper was waiting to hand him back to us.

See, SEE?!

A History of Lunches.

Lunch time has become some what of a mythical creature for me. It very rarely happens and when it does it fails to ignite the passion I once had for that time of the day. I remember packed lunches made with motherly love, school dinners laced with grease and sugar, diet coke breaks, liquid lunches and lunch hours with a side of Facebook stalking.

Today I am reminiscing for those lost lunch times. I have recalled my lunches from years past and thought it might be nice to share them with you.

Here we go.

The Early Years:

Age 1: Anything, according to my mum.

Age 5: Cucumber with everything, animal biscuits.

The School Years:

Age 7: Chicken fricassee, boiled potatoes with salt.

Age 11: Turkey drummer, chips and beans, doughnut, cherry Panda Pop. Every. Single. Day.

Age 15: A packet of T-bone steak Roysters crisps and an unhealthy dose of self loathing.

Age 17: Batting away a rampage of bitchy looks in the common room, boy watching, diet coke.

The Diet Years:

Aged 20: Small apple, small yoghurt, rice cake, belly full of insecurity.

The Heartbreak Years:

Age 21: Binge eating, purging.

Age 22: Wine, gossip, tears.

The Living With The Girls Years.

Aged 23: What ever I could buy for £2.50 from the questionable corner shop, cause I'd spent all my money on going out and cigarettes, food packages from mum.

The Falling In Love Years: 

Aged 25: I can't remember.

The Baby Years:

Aged 26: Ginger tea, ginger biscuits, as much as I could fit in with a baby taking up half the room.

Aged 27: Cake, contentment.

Aged 28: Sometimes Baby's leftovers, often thin air.

Oh lunch time, don't be a stranger.

Come visit soon.

I miss you.