I’m not a fan of it. By not a fan, what I’m saying is that I wish people would shut the hell up and not try to talk to me or around me when (honestly) I’m at what I consider my most vulnerable.
The kids do this and that I understand (though don’t like). Children need reassurance and company and have no concept of boundary, personal or otherwise.
Adults do this too, talk during toilet time. I don’t like it, especially when directed at me. One saving grace though is at least fellow grown-ups rarely barge into the room and tell you to move over because they need to go to.
We’ll talk about my issues with the adult toileteers in a separate post.
At the time of writing, my son is five. Six in just over a couple of weeks and I’m uncomfortable with our toilet relationship.
My boy has designated me his “Piddle Buddy”.
This entails the usual daddy duties, we go to public toilets together and I’m responsible for his penile urination training and co-ordination.
What is also means is that whenever I need to wee (even if he has just been) he takes this as an invitation to join in!
His pants come down, the winky comes out and he analyses me closely to adapt the same posture, angle (to mixed results) and pace of flow.
It’s disturbing. Curiosity is a good thing but sometimes I need to pee in peace and I definitely don’t want it to be team sport.
Did I mention that he never stops chatting during this process, either about what is currently happening (no matter how public the venue) or about whatever is currently on his mind?
Firstly, don’t worry. Unlike the Piddle Pals, he isn’t expecting this to be a done in synchronization!
No, what he means by this, is that whilst he poops he expects me to share the same (or a nearby room) whilst he talks about his day, his toys or his favourite TV shows.
Alternatively, he means that whilst I poop; he sits or stands directly in front of me, asks what’s wrong, talks about (or pretends to be) animals or occasionally questions whether it is time to be fed yet.
It never is.
A Few WTF Moments
Major discomforts aside, here are a few things that the boy Papalite has said whilst one of use was heeding nature’s call:
Daddy, my penis has fallen off!
It hadn’t, it just wasn’t in the place where he remembered it being.
Mummy! Daddy! I have willy hair!
He didn’t (and still does not). It was a stray, loose hair that had found its way there.
Dada, when did mummy’s penis fall off? When she was a baby or when I was a baby?
I’ll be honest, I never answered this question. I distracted him with jokes.
Daddy, do I have a willy or a penis?
This likely came from me preferring the technical term and his mother not.
Papa, do I have to stand and wee? My legs are too busy. I want to sit like mummy!
I said he could, and he managed to piddle through the gap between the toilet seat and actual toilet.
Where does poo come from?
I explained, and he then goes on to explain how I am obviously wrong as it comes from his bum.
And There We Have It…
I hate to say it, but, this won’t be the last time you read about me being on the loo and having to either listen to or engage in a conversation.
Unless, of course you choose to stop reading what I write.
Which, I guess means, that this could be the last time.
I don’t blame you.