Julie Jay: My sitting room is now home to more ‘stools’ than a traditional high bar

We are currently in the throes of potty training, and so far, much like my comedy reviews, results have been mixed

When Ted uses the potty, we make sure to give a round of applause the likes of which haven’t been heard since Riverdance brought The Point to its feet in 1994

WE are currently in the throes of potty training, and so far, much like my comedy reviews, the results have been mixed.

Overall, it’s been going well, but because it’s all so emotional, it’s always hard to know what will elicit tears and what Ted is quite happy to chalk down to experience in a “water off a duck’s back” stance.

Just this morning, we applauded Ted on what was (not to boast) a perfectly formed turd delivered squarely into his potty. So proud was Ted that he performed a bow and followed this up by uttering the words: “You’re welcome,” in a moment of peak sincerity. Sadly this collective joy was short-lived when Fred proceeded to flush the same turd down the toilet, and Ted was devastated.

“My poo-eey,” he wailed, the tears coming in a tsunami of emotion. And try as we might, he was not for consoling. It’s hard to know what the alternative was. As much as I am all for holding onto mementoes, surely, much like teen love, perfect turds are not made to last? As Ted sniffled and grieved, I pondered other options. Perhaps we could have kept the perfect turd on display and live-streamed it on a webcam, much like the last surviving order of a McDonald’s hamburger and fries is still displayed in Iceland, 14 years after its purchase? Hygiene issues aside, at least the footage would have bought myself and Fred some airtime on at least one regional radio station.

When Ted uses the potty, we make sure to give a round of applause the likes of which haven’t been heard since Riverdance brought The Point to its feet in 1994. Fred and I are really good at making a fuss, and a number two gets a particularly enthusiastic bualadh bos.

Now that Ted has been introduced to the thrills of running bare-bottomed around the gaff, it is becoming increasingly difficult to coax him back into the constraints of the nappy. To be fair, I hardly blame him given that we all welcome that gentle breeze in the nether regions, but given that we haven’t quite mastered our Peppa Pig potty, this penchant for lounging in the nip has led to some unfortunate incidents.

To paraphrase Star Trek’s Captain Kirk: I have discovered poos in places where no poos have been before, often having been given a heads-up by Ted, who cryptically announces he has “done a poo-ey in the sitting room” with zero clues as to its precise location. It is as if he is hosting a perverse Easter egg hunt. As I get on my hands and knees on poo patrol, I am often mounted by Ted who jumps on my back and gives me hints if I am headed in the wrong direction.

Julie Jay: Now that Ted has been introduced to the thrills of running bare-bottomed around the gaff, it is becoming increasingly difficult to coax him back into the constraints of the nappy.

On more than one occasion, armed with a nappy bag and being ridden around the sitting room like a piebald pony at the Dingle Races Derby, I thought there must be a better way. Still, as a woman who generally runs her life by committee, I have found the advice given by friends to be of varying usefulness.

One friend reminded me that she toilet trained her little girl at 15 months. “I mean, you like going to the toilet, don’t you Julie?” she had said at the time in what will go down as one of the strangest questions ever posed to me by a confidante. I often think back to that quote when I am getting up to go to the toilet for the fourth time in one night and think maybe going to the toilet is overrated, and wonder if a bedpan would save me the midnight cardio.

Another friend swears by the “three-day method”, where you essentially lock yourself and your toddler in the house for three days and emerge only when ready to give underpants-living a go or when you’re climbing the walls and pulling your hair out in clumps. I can’t vouch for the effectiveness of such an approach but I don’t think my marriage would survive.

This afternoon, after our second poop of the day (again, not bragging), I brought Ted by the hand to bid a solemn farewell to his “chocolate pudding”. In a bid to make sure he is equally culpable, I get him to pull the flush.

“Bye bye poo-ey,” I wave fondly at the bowl.

“Bye bye poo-ey, I love you,” adds Ted, and I make a mental note to pay minimum heed to his declarations of love in the future.

I ventured out with Ted to the shop this evening — he was minus a nappy for the first time, and his confidence overfloweth. Gesticulating wildly, he proceeded to list off all his comrades at the childminder’s who wear nappies as if his own nappy journey was but a distant memory, a relic of some ancient past.

“They’re babies, Mammy,” he declares, “and Ted is big boy.”

Yes, in his mind he’s moved beyond the realm of Pampers and straight into the realm of secondary school students. To reinforce the point, at that moment he waves madly to a group of senior-level school students emerging through the automatic shop doors.

“My name’s Ted,” he tells them, greeting them like the nappy-less peers that they are.

They are very kind, return the greeting, and even congratulate him as he informs them he’s not wearing a nappy. If I have learned anything from Ted this week, it is always to be your own cheerleader, and should the need arise, behind the couch is always a great place to stash a poo.