Raisin' hell

It was my own fault really. As the baby (OK, toddler) lay across me this morning, saying, "cuggle, Mummy" and kissing my cheek and giggling, I thought, "I'm so glad I work part time. I'd really miss this special time together if I was working five days a week."

It was my own fault.

Big Ted in happier times

Fast forward a couple of hours and we're stuck on a non-moving Central Line train. We have exhausted any amusement Big Ted or Oinky Pig might be able to provide. The carefully-stashed maraca was brought out of the buggy so we could do some singing and tapping in time to music. She grabbed it excitedly... and then thwacked me over the head with it. Hard. Twice. The maraca went back into the buggy.

The screaming commenced. The emergency box of raisins was retrieved from my coat pocket. I have them stashed in any given coat like dog treats.

"Rai-dan! Rai-dan!" shouted the toddler. One single raisin was dispatched. Whilst still chewing, "Rai-dan! Rai-dan!" was demanded.

"Say please," I said, hopefully, more for the benefit of other passengers, so I could pretend for a little while longer that I was a decent parent and my child wasn't a despot.

"NOOOOO!" screamed the toddler. I gave her a raisin.

"Say thank you," I suggested, optimistically.

"NOOO!" she screamed again and reached for the raisin box. I am not an idiot. This was a terrible idea. We were on a non-moving train; the entire Central Line had been suspended. I had no idea (nor did the driver) how much longer we'd be there for - and we had no way of getting off the train, as there was no step-free access, and the last time I had asked a TFL employee to help me on the stairs, he told me to fuck off and gave me the finger. I love the Underground.

The raisins needed to be rationed.

But the toddler wanted the raisin box. And she was prepared to scream for it. The noise that followed is - I imagine - the exact same noise you would get if you electrocuted a guinea pig.

My fellow passengers shooting me death-stares, Reader, I gave her the raisin box.

"Rai-dan," she gurgled happily and set to work opening it up. She achieved this in approximately 0.2 seconds. And - little genius that she is - her next step was to shake the box vigorously, thus sending said rai-dans flying all over the floor of the tube.

Securely strapped into the buggy, the toddler could not reach the dropped raisins, nor would I pick them up for her. We generally have a 5(00) second rule at home with dropped floor food, but even I draw the line at tube floors. If their cleaners are as committed to their jobs as the station staff, they probably mop the floor with their own piss.

The biggest problem was this: the tube - now stationary for over 30 minutes - had no other seats. And the toddler could see the dropped raisins that she wasn't allowed. There was nowhere to move to. The next five minutes involved the most tortured wailing I've ever had the misfortune to witness. I tried to give her Big Ted. "NOOOO!" she screamed, hitting Big Ted halfway across the carriage. I tried my failsafe fall-back - showing her videos of her narcissistic little self on my iPhone. "NOOOO!" she wailed, knocking my iPhone (quite hard) into the lap of a disapproving-looking older lady.

The raisins were gone. The iPhone distraction wasn't working. The tube wasn't moving.

And I'm sorry, TFL, but the £1.30 compensation you're offering me for a journey which caused a migraine and  necessitated an emergency slice of cake in the John Lewis cafe doesn't begin to cover it. Much less the fees for boarding school. Can you send them from age 2?

Potty mouth

Today we decided to start potty training. Mothers from a generation ago will say, "Ooh, 18 months, that's a bit late, isn't it?" Anyone who's currently raising a child will say, "Are you mental? It's not possible to potty train a child under the age of two."

The big issue, apparently, is that disposable nappies are just too good - so babies these days tend not to know they're wet... and so it takes them longer to realise when they're going to the toilet. (Or rather, not going to the toilet.) In the meantime, Pampers are making a fortune as most babies are in nappies for a good year longer than they were when everyone wore cloth nappies.

In Eastern Europe, they tend to potty train much earlier than we do, and I have several friends from Lithuania and Romania at baby groups, with children roughly the same age as ours, whose babies - barring a couple of accidents - are already potty trained. Those who know me, know I'm competitive. It was time to potty train.

I'm a planner. We put aside the bank holiday weekend as a time we could be pretty much totally in the house all day, close to a potty, wandering round underwear-free (just the baby - TheBloke (TM) has already had complaints about this from the neighbours.). Today was the day we started.

We didn't get off to a great beginning. The baby woke up with a cold, and decided that the way she would most like to start her day was with a solid 45 minutes of whinging and crying.

Not to be deterred, after breakfast, I put her in a dress, with no nappy or underwear, showed her the potty again, and we practised sitting on it. Well, she did. I didn't really fit.

Fast forward twenty minutes. She had steadfastly avoided the potty, but had made a puddle on the floor.

"Never mind," I said brightly, fetching a cloth and some disinfectant. "This is why it's great we've got wooden floors!" I sat her on the potty to show what she needed to do. She picked up the potty and pretended to drink from it, making a satisfied, "Ahhhh" noise when she had finished her (hopefully) pretend drink.

I cleaned her up, and we went on our way.

It was close to the time of the morning when she normally has a poo. I sat her on the potty. She did not want to sit on the potty. She wandered round the house. I followed, with the potty.

The baby walked over to the door mat - literally the only piece of fabric we have downstairs, literally the only thing on the whole floor that wasn't wipe-clean... and, whilst standing up, did a massive turd, right in the middle of it.

I think the only word that could describe this is "spiteful".

At 9.00 a.m. today, I was tipping a giant turd from our doormat into the toilet. How was your day?

We quietly put the nappy back on at about 9.01, and haven't mentioned it again. Perhaps we'll be brave enough to try again tomorrow.