I will resist tagging, son.
Take consolation from the superior design of the male body.
I’ve thanked my lucky stars countless times that I’ve born sons rather than daughters. Potty training is so much easier. In my early days with young Joe, my ‘You Must Do Everything By The Book’ contemporaries were horrified by my strategy of taking one small empty honey jar out in my handbag, wherever I should go, complete with a piece of kitchen roll neatly rolled round the neck and held in place with an elastic band (the perfect drip catcher). But even I was caught short on occasion.
I remember we took my mother to Heathrow to catch a flight, and found ourselves queuing with her and the rest of South London in the check in hall, packed literally shoulder to shoulder. A small voice round about thigh level suddenly piped up “Mummy, wee wee”. Although the ‘Toilets’ sign was…
View original post 135 more words