It was also getting a bit of a squeeze to fit Sam's slim but long frame into our much loved cloth nappies and oh, the washing, the endless washing from having two cloth bums in the house.
Also, I was having one of those lovely periods of crippling self doubt when I was sure I was the most inept mother in the world and as a result my firstborn would probably walk down the aisle in a pull up.
So one sunny day, I stationed one potty upstairs by the loo, put the training seat on the toilet seat, placed another potty in a convenient corner of the living room (this was the the old house so no super convenient downstairs toilet) and with no further ado, I told Sam to pick a pair of big boy pants.
I sat him on the potty every 40 minutes for 5 minutes at a time. We talked about big boys not needing nappies. We talked about how it feels when you need to pee or you know...We talked more about bathroom habits than I ever have or ever want to. He managed to pee on the potty twice and near it a couple more times. He also soaked through every pair of pants and trousers he owned. And there was an incident with more *ahem* solid waste that I don't want to think about, never mind write about.
The potty training articles and books all talk about readiness. At the end of that day, I realised that age aside (why do we fall so often into the trap of considering what other kids are doing?), Sam was probably not ready and I definitely wasn't ready to put us both through another day of trauma.
An important part to admit to here is that Sam gets his mile wide stubborn streak directly from me. I knew that butting heads with him was only going to lead to stress for both of us and that doesn't seem like a productive learning environment for anyone.
We tried again with similar results in the middle of the May. On reflection, it was lousy timing, both boys (and mummy) were on edge as the house was in uproar with clearing out and packing up. But he was at least at the point where he was talking about the process and if he happened to be streaking in the garden he would tell me that he needed to use the potty.
That carried on to the new house so we set aside Euan's week off (lucky lucky daddy) to take the plunge. And Sam took to it like a duck to water. Barely any accidents and after the first day, he lost interest in sticker rewards, he just accepted that big boy pants were the way forward. We even went out with minimum fuss and he managed to let me know when he needed a toilet break after one change of clothes after he got too absorbed in playing.
As he'd pooped happily (sorry, I ran out of euphemisms) on the potty on the first day I was starting to feel a teensy bit smug. Ha, I thought to myself, nailed it. Bring on next year and Sam can potty train Leo, he's obviously a pro.
Ah but, or indeed butt, did our wee pro not decide to put me back in my place and start refusing to poop a couple of days later. We have been filling him with fibre, plying him with drinks and stool softener and words of encouragement but no matter. He has decided that since this is something he can control, he will control it.
As I write on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I have heartlessly abandoned my backed up toddler, bewildered baby and beleaguered husband to hide away from the tenth round of Sam versus Poop. There is screeching, there are tears (mine mostly) and there are two stressed out parents. There is so far, no poop.
But I'll hang on in here, stop being grumpy with my husband and possibly eat my body weight in chocolate later because I foolishly forgot that an important part of potty training success is a glass of wine for mummy at the end of the day and left it until I was pregnant and on an enforced dry spell. Send poopy thoughts everyone.