Commute from Hell

Potty training has commenced in the Nicholas household. So far the much anticipated event has gone relatively smoothly, with the odd accident here and there but no real dramas. However, we've been sticking pretty close to home and trips out have been taken at times when the traffic hasn't been too bad.

Until this morning. It all began to go wrong around six, everyone slept in, bags weren't ready and so we bundled out of the house, twenty minutes late, and with the essential, unforgettable question unasked. "Do you need to go to the toilet?"

Sigh.

We hit the very middle of peak hour. And it was a bad peak hour, millions of cars all going along very very slowly. So, there we are, languishing in a traffic jam when a little voice pipes up, "toilet please..."

Aaaagh.

So I give up my precious spot in the queue, dive into a side street, drag child out of car, point to bush and let nature take its course. Only it doesn't. Not a drip or a drop. False alarm, or possibly performance anxiety.

We pile back into the car, and join endless traffic again, only ten minutes behind where we were before. I am not convinced that all is well in the back seat and keep a nervous banter going hoping to distract child. Then, on a six lane main road, trying to turn right at traffic lights and blocked to the left by a truck and three more lanes of traffic the little voice pipes up again... "Mummy, toilet please..."

Oh My God.

We sat there, through three changes of the lights, then the next five sets of lights were red and one set was even blacked out (charged through it, sometimes largeness of car is good for something and it was an emergency). Sweating blood, stressing out, driving like a maniac and at the same time keeping up cheerful chatter to distract small thoughts from straining bladder. Arrive at day care, drag two children and five bags out of car into childcare centre, throw all through door, grab small, about to burst person, tear off clothes (hers) and with a sigh of relief place upon toilet.

Nothing.

Not a drip, not a drop.

"Mummy, you dropped all the bags on the floor," she lectures me.

Sigh.