I have poo in my hair. I have POO in my HAIR! And it isn't even my own poo, not that that would necessarily mean an improvement in my situation.
There is also poo on the floor, on the bath, on Little O's hands, his legs, and guess what, a small amount on the actual bloody potty.
This was not the plan. This was not supposed to happen. And somewhere in the midst of this carnage, my brain is trying to fathom whether I can call this progress. But before you call for the men in white coats, please let me provide some context.
Little O isn't potty trained yet. Despite me putting it off and putting it off, it's something both S and I know we need to get onto.