AS PARENTS, we seem to stagger blindly from one drama to the next.

Our daughter, since her infancy, has done the difficult thing at every stage, and our next milestone is already proving to be more of the same struggle. She’s a few months away from turning three, and the spectre of potty training is looming. Even though her peer toddlers are all sorted with their pants, our darling daughter still doesn’t even show any signs of being remotely ready. I am glad our experienced childminder agrees that she’s not at all interested as yet and it’s not just a failure on our part.

Not that we’re escaping more toilet-related drama yet, however. I let her run around our living room every night for a few minutes with no clothes on from the waist down, airing the skin that has been imprisoned beneath a nappy all day. She absolutely adores this session, and hysterically flings herself around over sofas and chairs having a complete blast whilst unclothed.

We place a potty in view, referring to it in what we hope is a casual yet firm manner, and keep an eye on all types of movements. But – you knew this was coming, didn’t you - twice in the week before last, we took our eyes off the ball and suffered the consequences.

The first time, I briefly ducked into the kitchen to make sure that the dinner didn’t burn and returned, oooh, a maximum of 40 seconds later to see a small squatting figure in a corner. She quickly leapt up, leaving me a tidy hot parcel of poo to move to a suitable other location, silently praising the heavens that we have a wooden floor in our entire downstairs living area.

The next occasion, and one that surely will not be the last, was a little worse for one of her parents. Both the other half and myself ventured into the kitchen again momentarily – not even separated from her by a door, as it’s all open plan –before he swiftly returned alone to the room.

I heard him utter the fatal words ‘There’s a bit of a whiff in here’ before he then cried out, ‘I’ve stood in it!’

Yes, dear reader, he’d failed to notice another centrally placed result of the opening of his daughter’s bowels, and had slipped right through it with his big ol’ boot. A boot I then had to clean, in addition to the floor, and the bottom of the culprit. Ah, a mother’s life.

It’s another story which we’ve memory banked for her wedding, of course, and have already laughed heartily about since.

Until next year, thanks for reading - and Merry Christmas!