Parenting humor:

The humiliation of being locked out

I suppose I should be grateful that our son Jack, who is nearly two years old, does not have a fascination for toilets.

You hear stories, don’t you, about toddlers conducting scientific tests on how many flushes it takes to propel a plastic car around a U-bend?

There are ways you can deal with this.
You could try educating the child not to do it, which over time could prove costly for you and lucrative for your plumber.
Or you could lock your child out. This need not involve hiring security men with snarling guard dogs.

Some friends of ours have installed a child-proof lock on their toilet.

My wife Katherine and I first met this couple at ante-natal classes more than two years ago.
Coincidentally, their son Lukasz and Jack were born within days of each other at the same hospital 23 months ago.
We meet every now and then, and swap anecdotes and tips.
We used to compare tales of nappy rash and poo; now it’s more sophisticated stuff like the artistic merits of Postman Pat versus Thomas the Tank Engine.

We went to their place last weekend.
We had a glass or two of champagne before dinner, a couple of glasses of red wine during dinner and couple of cups of coffee after dinner.
The boys were happy playing together, Jack admiring his host’s admirable collection of miniature amphibious vehicles, while we babbled on.

There came a time, however, when my bladder began sending messages of great urgency to my brain.

No drama. In my 39 years, I have successfully completed this particular bodily function at least 42,705 times.

"If you’ll excuse me for a minute," I told my hosts. "I have to use your toilet."

Nobody warned me about the child-proof lock on the dunny.
I was not particularly daunted when I saw it. I mean, how hard could it be to open? It's a CHILD lock. I'm an ADULT.
They must open easily, right?

Well, you try it sometime - bladder threatening to implode at any moment. I pushed the lock and pulled it and prodded it and poked it.
But the lid would not release. I twisted it and turned it and tugged it and tapped it. I wrenched it and rattled it and wriggled it and wobbled it.

But to no avail.

I remember quite vividly being in grade one at a little Catholic school in Tasmania and wetting my pants during end-of-school prayers one day.

I have no idea how long the prayers went for, but to a five-year-old with a full bladder it seemed forever and nothing, but nothing, was important enough to interrupt prayers.

Fortunately, I have greater control these days.

To say I returned to the dinner table defeated, though, with my tail between my legs and tears running down my cheeks is not far from the truth.

"Would you like another cup of coffee," I was asked.

"No thanks, we really must be getting home," I said. "It’s later than I thought."

Well, what would you have done? I didn’t ask the nuns to stop prayers and I wasn’t about to ask another grown man (and certainly not his wife) to come unlock the toilet for me.

First published in The Advocate, Burnie